HE  HEART  OF  OLD  HICKORY 
AND  OTHER  STORIES  OF 
TENNESSEE 


;. 
BY  WILL  ALLEN  DROMGOOLE 

WITH  PREFACE  BY 
B.  O.  FLOWER 


SECOND  EDITION 


BOSTON 

DANA  ESTES  &  CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHTED,  1895, 

BY 
ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


CT0  fSg  JFatfjtr 

Stofjn  Easter 


PREFACE, 


ONE  day  in  the  summer  of  1890  I  received 
a  manuscript  entitled  ' '  Fiddling  His  Way  to 
Fame,"  accompanied  by  a  brief  note.  Both 
were  signed  Will  Allen  Dromgoole.  I  read 
the  sketch,  and  at  once  remarked  to  Mrs. 
Flower  that,  in  my  judgment,  this  was  a 
case  of  the  hand  of  Esau  and  the  voice  of 
Jacob,  or,  in  other  words,  though  the  name 
signed  was  that  of  a  man,  the  sketch  was 
certainly  the  work  of  a  woman  or  had  been 
recast  by  a  woman.  There  were  certain  fine 
strokes  and  delicate  touches,  in  a  word,  a 
general  atmosphere  evincing  a  fine  interior 
appreciation  of  the  working  of  the^human 
heart  which  characterizes  woman's  thought 
at  its  best  and  which  stamped  this  as  the 
work  of  a  woman.  I  know  this  view  does  not 
accord  with  the  opinion  held  by  many  of  my 
friends  in  regard  to  mental  differentiation, 
but  my  experience  thoroughly  convinces  me 

that  there  is  a  subtle  quality  and  intuitional 

iii 


v 


power  which  is  distinctly  characteristic  of 
woman,  though  there  are  men  who  possess 
this  subtle  something  in  a  more  or  less 
marked  degree. 

I  immediately  accepted  the  sketch,  as  it 
was  something  I  wanted  to  lighten  the  pages 
of  my  review,  and  because  it  possessed  a 
certain  charm  which  is  rare  among  modern 
writers,  being  humorous  and  pathetic  by 
turns,  wonderfully  true  to  life,  and  yet  free 
from  the  repulsive  elements  so  often  present 
in  realistic  sketches. 

Since  that  day  the  brilliant  little  Tennes- 
see authoress,  who  bears  a  man's  name,  but 
who  is  one  of  the  most  womanly  of  women, 
has  contributed  more  fiction  to  the  ARENA 
than  any  other  writer.  Her  sketches  have 
proved  extremely  popular,  owing  to  her  ar- 
tistic skill  in  bringing  out  the  pathos  and 
humor  of  the  situations  depicted,  no  less 
than  the  fidelity  with  which  she  draws  her 
characters  and  her  intense  sympathy  with 
humble  life.  She  constantly  reminds  the 
reader  of  Charles  Dickens,  although  her 
writings  are  free  from  the  tendency  to  cari- 
cature and  overdraw  which  always  seems  to 
me  to  be  present  in  the  works  of  the  great 
English  author. 


Miss  Dromgoole  is  nothing  if  not  a  South- 
erner, and  her  love  of  the  South  is  only 
surpassed  by  the  affection  she  feels  for  the 
mountains  and  valleys  of  her  dear  old  Ten- 
nessee. She  is  a  woman  of  conviction  and 
possesses  the  spirit  of  our  era  in  a  large  de- 
gree. No  one  familiar  with  her  work  during 
the  past  four  years  can  fail  to  note  how 
steadily  her  views  have  broadened  and  how 
rapidly  popular  prejudice  has  given  place  to 
that  broad  and  justice-loving  spirit  which  is 
so  needed  in  modern  life,  and  which  enables 
its  possessor  to  rise  above  petty  prejudice 
or  unreasoning  conventionalism  when  con- 
science speaks  to  the  soul. 

Miss  Dromgoole  has  had  a  hard  life  in 
more  ways  than  one.  It  has  been  a  constant 
struggle.  It  was  not  until  after  the  death 
of  her  mother,  who  had  ever  encouraged 
and  believed  in  her,  that  she  began  to  write 
for  the  public.  That  was  about  nine  years 
ago.  With  the  death  of  her  mother  the 
home  was  broken  up,  and  the  loss  of  the 
dearest  friend  and  counsellor  to  a  nature  so 
intense  as  hers,  and  the  necessity  of  earning 
a  living,  led  her  to  carry  out  her  mother's 
oft-expressed  wish  and  write  for  publication. 
Her  first  ambitious  attempt  won  a  prize 


v 


offered  by  the  Youth's  Companion,  and  that 
journal  and  other  publications  accepted 
many  of  her  stories.  "  But,"  to  quote  from 
her  own  words,  "  it  was  not  until  '  Fiddling 
His  Way  to  Fame  '  appeared  in  the  ARENA 
that  I  suddenly  found  myself  famous,  and 
since  then  I  have  had  more  orders  for  work 
than  I  have  been  able  to  fill." 

As  the  personality  of  a  famous  writer  is 
always  interesting,  I  propose  to  give  a  brief 
descriptive  sketch  of  the  little  woman  of 
whom  the  South  has  just  reason  to  be  proud 
before  speaking  of  this  book.  She  is  small 
of  stature,  fragile  in  appearance,  intense  in 
her  nature,  and  of  a  highly-strung  nervous 
organism.  I  seldom  care  to  dwell  on  the 
ancestry  of  an  individual,  as  I  think  that 
sort  of  thing  has  been  greatly  overdone,  and 
I  believe  with  Bulwer  that  "  not  to  the  past 
but  to  the  future  looks  true  nobility,  and 
finds  its  blazon  in  posterity."  And  yet  the 
ancestry  of  an  individual  may  sometimes 
prove  a  helpful  and  interesting  study.  I 
have  frequently  noticed  in  the  writings  of 
authors  who  exhibit  great  versatility,  no  less 
than  in  the  lives  of  individuals  who  seem  to 
present  strikingly  contradictory  phases  of 
character,  the  explanation  of  these  phenom- 


v 

ena  in  their  ancestry-.  In  the  case  of  Miss 
Dromgoole  we  find  an  interesting  illustration 
of  this  nature.  Her  great-grandfather 
Edward  Dromgoole  emigrated  from  Sligo, 
Ireland ;  as  he  had  accepted  the  tenets  of 
Protestantism  and  his  people  were  strong 
Catholics,  it  was  unpleasant  for  him  to 
longer  remain  in  his  native  land.  He  be- 
came a  prominent  pioneer  Methodist  minister 
in  Virginia.  One  of  his  sons,  a  well-known 
orator,  represented  the  Petersburg  district 
in  congress.  Her  maternal  grandfather  was 
of  Danish  extraction,  while  her  great-grand- 
mother on  her  father's  side  was  an  English- 
woman, and  her  great-grandfather  on  the 
mother's  side  married  a  French  lady.  Here 
we  have  the  mingling  of  Irish,  Danish,  Eng- 
lish, and  French  blood,  with  some  striking 
characteristics  of  each  of  these  peoples  ap- 
pearing perceptibly  in  the  person  and  works 
of  Miss  Dromgoole.  Though  she  repudiates 
the  English  *  in  her  blood,  her  sturdy  loyalty 
to  high  principles  and  an  ethical  strength 
wedded  to  a  certain  seriousness,  almost  sad- 

*  In  a  personal  letter  Miss  Dromgoole  says  :  "  I  do  not 
know  what  I  am.  I  claim  the  Irish  and  the  French.  I 
feel  the  Danish  blood  in  my  veins  at  times,  but  the  cold 
blood  of  the  English  I  repudiate." 


viii  $»  nfm. 

ness,  strongly  suggest  the  Anglo-Saxon  at 
its  best.  She  has  the  Irish  keen  sense  of 
humor,  which  is  seen  in  her  writings  and 
lectures,  no  less  than  in  her  conversation. 
The  energy  and  determination  together  with 
the  persistency  of  the  Dane,  and  some  of  the 
bright  and  versatile  characteristics  of  the 
French,  are  evident  in  her  life  and  work, 
although  there  is  a  strong  tendency  to  dwell 
too  much  on  the  gloomy  side  of  life  which 
even  the  Irish  humor  and  the  cheerful  quali- 
ties of  the  French  blood  have  not  overcome. 
This  is  due  I  think  largely  to  the  blow  occa- 
sioned by  the  death  of  her  mother  and  the 
terrible  struggle  which  has  marked  her  life, 
and  which  has  been  waged  against  adversity 
with  much  the  same  sense  of  loyalty  to  right 
as  marked  the  Roundheads  in  their  conflicts 
with  King  Charles  I. 

Her  parents,  John  E.  Dromgoole  and 
Rebecca  Mildred  Blanch,  after  marriage, 
moved  from  Brunswick  County,  Virginia, 
to  Tennessee.  Miss  Dromgoole  was  born  in 
Murfreesboro,  in  the  last-named  state,  and 
graduated  from  the  Female  Academy  of 
Clarksville,  Tennessee.  For  several  years 
she  was  engrossing  clerk  for  the  senate  of 
Tennessee.  During  recent  years  she  has 


x 


spent  much  of  her  time  in  Boston  and  New 
York,  where  she  has  been  warmly  welcomed 
and  has  many  sincere  admirers  among  those 
who  appreciate  genius  and  sterling  worth. 

The  present  volume  illustrates  the  author's 
power  and  versatility  in  a  forcible  manner, 
and  will  prove  a  valuable  addition  to  the 
literature  of  genuine  merit  from  the  pens  of 
Southern  writers.  The  first  sketch,  "The 
Heart  of  Old  Hickory,"  is,  in  my  judgment, 
one  of  the  finest  short  stories  of  the  present 
generation.  It  has  proved  unusually  popu- 
lar, and  displays  the  wonderful  power  of  its 
gifted  author  in  blending  humor  and  pathos, 
while  investing  with  irresistible  fascination 
a  sketch  which,  in  the  hands  of  any  other 
than  an  artist,  would  appear  tame  and  in- 
sipid. It  is  a  masterpiece  in  its  way,  and 
like  all  her  writings  deals  largely  with  the 
hopes,  sorrows,  aspirations,  and  tragedies  of 
the  common  life  in  Tennessee.  I  think  it 
also  will  convince  all  readers  that  the  author 
might  have  made  a  great  success  as  an  ad- 
vocate before  a  jury  had  she  chosen  law 
instead  of  literature  for  her  professsion. 
"  Fiddling  His  Way  to  Fame"  is  a  unique 
and  most  delightful  sketch,  in  which  ex- 
Governor  Taylor  again  figures  conspicu- 


ously.  "A  Wonderful  Experience  Meet- 
ing" and  "Who  Broke  Up  de  Meetin'?" 
are  true  to  the  present-day  negro  dialect. 
Unlike  many  persons  who  essay  this  field  of 
literature,  Miss  Dromgoole  never  overdoes 
the  dialect,  and  those  familiar  with  the  ver- 
nacular as  spoken  in  Tennessee  and  Ken- 
tucky will  recognize  the  absolute  fidelity  to 
the  requirements  which  characterizes  these 
amusing  and  faithful  sketches.  They  are 
in  her  happiest  vein,  and  are  extremely  well 
written.  "Bags"  is  a  pathetic  picture  of 
the  street-gamin  life,  showing  the  strength 
of  our  author  when  she  paints  in  sombre 
hues. 

"The  Heart  of  the  Woods"  is  in  many 
respects  strikingly  unlike  the  other  stories. 
Through  it  flows  a  strain  of  supernormalism 
which  is  rarely  found  in  the  writings  of  our 
Southern  authors.  In  many  ways  it  is  one 
of  Miss  Dromgoole's  best  productions,  and 
illustrates  anew  the  versatility  of  the  author. 
Perchance  the  manes  of  some  of  her  Norse 
ancestors  may  have  been  about  her  when 
she  penned  the  sombre  but  fascinating  crea- 
tion "  The  Heart  of  the  Woods." 

In  "  Ole  Logan's  Courtship"  we  come  out 
again  into  the  sunshine,  as  here  we  find 


xi 

humor  predominating.  This  sketch,  like 
most  of  Miss  Dromgoole's  short  stories,  is 
taken  from  life.  The  bases  of  her  best 
sketches  have  been  actual  occurrences,  which, 
however,  required  the  subtle  power  of  the 
true  artist  to  make  others  see  and  feel  the 
life,  with  its  sunshine  and  shadows,  in  the 
scenes  depicted.  The  play  of  Hamlet,  it  will 
be  remembered,  existed  before  Shakespeare's 
time ;  but  it  was  the  immortal  bard  of  the 
Avon  who  breathed  into  it  the  breath  of 
life,  such  as  comes  only  from  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  genius,  and  lo !  the  mannikin  was 
imbued  with  life. 

In  "  Christmas  Eve  at  the  Corner  Grocery  " 
we  are  strongly  reminded  of  the  Dickens 
quality  in  the  writings  of  our  author,  with- 
out the  slightest  suggestion  of  imitation. 
This  sketch  has  proved  unusually  popular 
as  a  recitation  at  Christmas  entertainments, 
and  almost  ranks  with  "The  Heart  of  Old 
Hickory  "  in  popularity  with  public  readers. 
It  is  a  charming  story  to  be  read  at  any 
time,  but  especially  appropriate  for  the  holi- 
days. 

I  believe  that  this  volume  will  take  a  high 
place  among  the  meritorious  works  of  mod- 
ern Southern  authors.  Tennessee  has  just 


xii 


reason  to  be  proud  of  the  little  authoress 
who  has  depicted  so  many  phases  of  humble 
life  within  her  borders  with  such  fidelity, 
such  delicacy,  and  such  rare  pathos  and 
humor. 

B.  0.  FLOWER 


CONTENTS. 


PAGH 

Preface iii 

The  Heart  of  Old  Hickory 5 

Fiddling  His  Way  to  Fame 39 

A  Wonderful  Experience  Meeting 73 

Who  Broke  Up  de  Meet'n'  ? 89 

Rags 104 

Ole  Logan's  Courtship 133 

The  Heart  of  the  Woods 157 

Christmas  Eve  at  the  Corner  Grocery 183 


THE  HEART  OF  OLD  HICKORY. 


NOISELESSLY,  dreamily,  with  that  sugges- 
tion of  charity  which  always  lingers  about  a 
snowstorm,  fell  the  white  flakes  down,  in  the 
arms  of  the  gray  twilight.  There  was  an 
air  of  desolation  about  the  grim  old  State 
House,  as,  one  by  one,  the  great  doors 
creaked  the  departure  of  the  various 
occupants  of  the  honorable  old  pile  that  over- 
looks the  city  and  the  sluggish  sweep  of  the 
Cumberland  beyond.  The  last  loitering  feet 
came  down  the  damp  corridors;  the  rustle 
of  a  woman's  skirts  sent  a  kind  of  ghostly 
rattle  through  the  shadowy  alcoves. 

The  Governor  heard  the  steps  and  the 
rustle  of  the  stiff  bombazine  skirts,  and 

wondered,  in  a  vague  way,  why  it  was  that 

5 


women  would  work  beyond  the  time  they 
bargained  for.  The  librarian  was  always 
the  last  to  leave,  except  the  Governor  himself. 
He  had  heard  her  pass  that  door  at  dusk, 
day  in,  day  out,  for  two  years,  and  always 
after  the  others  were  gone.  He  never  felt 
quite  alone  in  the  empty  State  House  until 
those  steps  had  passed  by.  This  evening, 
however,  they  stopped,  and  he  looked  up 
inquiringly  as  the  knob  was  carefully  turned, 
and  the  librarian  entered  the  executive  office. 

"  I  only  stopped  to  say  a  word  for  the 
little  hunchback's  mother,"  she  said.  "  She 
is  not  a  bad  woman,  and  her  provocation  was 
great.  Moreover,  she  is  a  woman" 

He  remembered  the  words  long  after  the 
librarian  had  gone. 

"  She  is  a  woman."  That  was  a  strange 
plea  to  advance  for  a  creature  sentenced  to 
the  gallows.  He  sighed,  and  again  took  up 
the  long  roll  of  paper  lying  upon  his  desk. 

"Inasmuch  as   she  was  sorely  wronged, 


$eart  of  (Did  f  kfconj.  7 

beaten,  tortured  by  seeing  her  afflicted  child 
ill-treated,  we,  the  undersigned,  do  beg  of 
your  excellency  all  charity  and  all  leniency 
compatible  with  the  laws  of  the  State,  and 
the  loftier  law  of  mercy." 

Oh,  that  was  an  old  story  j  yet  it  read  weh1, 
too,  that  old,  old  petition  with  that  old,  old 
plea — charity.  Five  hundred  names  were 
signed  to  it;  and  yet,  thrice  five  hundred 
tongues  would  lash  him  if  he  set  his  own 
name  there.  It  was  a  hard  thing, — to  hold 
life  in  his  hand  and  refuse  it.  Those  old 
threadbare  stories,  old  as  pain  itself,  had 
well-nigh  wrought  his  ruin;  his  political 
ruin.  At  least  the  papers  said  as  much ; 
they  had  sneeringly  nicknamed  him  "  Tender- 
heart,"  and  compared  him,  with  a  sneer,  too, 
to  that  old  sterling  hero — the  Governor's 
eyes  sought  the  east  window,  where  the 
statue  of  Andrew  Jackson  loomed  like  a 
bronze  giant  amid  the  snowflakes  and  the 
gathering  twilight.  They  had  compared 


at 

them,  the  old  hero  who  lived  in  bronze,  and 
the  young  human-heart  who  had  no  "  back- 
bone," and  was  moved  by  a  rogue's  cry. 

Yet,  he  had  loved  that  majestic  old  statue 
since  the  day  he  entered  the  executive  office 
as  chief  ruler  of  the  State,  and  had  fancied 
for  a  moment  the  old  hero  was  welcoming 
him  into  her  trust  and  highest  honor,  as  he 
sat  astride  his  great  steed  with  his  cocked 
hat  lifted  from  the  head  that  had  indeed 
worn  "  large  honors."  But  he  had  been  so 
many  times  thrust  into  his  teeth,  he  could 
almost  wish — 

"  Papers  !  Papers !  wanter  paper,  mis- 
ter?" 

A  thin  little  face  peered  in  at  the  door,  a 
face  so  old,  so  strangely  unchildlike,  he 
wondered  for  an  instant  what  trick  of  pain's 
had  fastened  that  knowing  face  of  a  man 
upon  the  misshapen  body  of  a  child. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Executive,  "I  want  a 
Banner" 


The  boy  had  bounded  forward,  as  well  as 
a  dwarfed  foot  would  allow,  at  the  welcome 
"Yes,"  but 'stopped  midway  the  apartment, 
and  slowly  shook  his  head  at  the  remainder 
of  the  sentence,  while  an  expression,  part 
jubilance,  part  regret,  and  altogether  disgust, 
crossed  his  little  old-young  face. 

"  Don't  sell  that  sort,  mister,"  said  he, 
"  none  o'  our  club  don't.  It's — low-lived." 

The  Governor  smiled,  despite  his  hard  day 
with  the  critics  and  the  petition  folk. 

"What?  You  don't  sell  the  Evening 
Banner,  the  only  independent  journal  in  the 
city?" 

The  newsboy  was  a  stranger  to  sar- 
casm. 

"  That's  about  the  size  on't,"  he  said  as  he 
edged  himself,  a  veritable  bundle  of  tatters, 
a  trifle  nearer  the  red  coals  glowing  in  the 
open  grate. 

Suddenly,  the  Executive  remembered  that 
it  was  cold.  There  were  ridges  of  snow  on 


10  $te     *art  at 


the  bronze  statue  at  the  window.  He  no- 
ticed, too,  the  movement  of  the  tatters  to- 
ward the  fire,  and  with  his  hand,  a  very 
white,  gentle-seeming  hand  it  was,  motioned 
the  little  vagabond  toward  the  grate.  No 
sooner  did  he  see  the  thin,  numb  fingers 

*  o 

stretched  toward  the  blaze  than  he  re- 
membered the  sneers  of  "  the  only  independ- 
ent journal."  It  was  not  far  from  right, 
surely,  when  it  called  him  "  soft-hearted," 
was  this  boycotted  Banner  which  the  news- 
boys refused  to  handle.  The  Executive 
smiled  ;  the  boycott,  at  all  events,  was 
comical. 

"  And  so,"  said  he,  "  you  refuse  to  sell 
the  Banner.  Why  is  that  ?  " 

"  Shucks  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  'Taint  no 
good.  None  o'  us  likes  it.  Yer  see,  cully 
The  Executive  started  j  but  a  glance 
at  the  earnest,  unconscious  face  convinced 
him  the  familiarity  was  not  intentional  dis- 
respect. "  You  see,"  the  boy  went  on,  "  it 


tem*  of  ®u  lidMtt}.          11 


sez  mean  things,  tells  lies,  yer  know,  about 
a  friend  o'  mine." 

One  foot,  the  shorter,  withered  member, 
was  thrust  dangerously  near  to  the  glowing 
coalbed  ;  the  little  gossip  was  making  him- 
self thoroughly  at  home.  The  Executive 
observed  it,  and  smiled.  He  also  noted  the 
weary  droop  of  the  shoulders,  and  impuls- 
ively pointed  to  a  seat.  He  only  meant 
something  upon  which  to  rest  himself,  and 
did  not  notice,  until  the  tatters  dropped 
wearily  into  the  purple  luxuriance,  that  he 
had  invited  the  little  Arab  to  a  seat  in  a 
great,  deep  armchair  of  polished  cherry, 
richly  upholstered  with  royal  purple 
plush,  finished  with  a  fringe  of  tawny 
gold. 

Instinctively,  he  glanced  toward  the  east 
window.  The  bronze  face  wore  a  solemn, 
sturdy  frown,  but  on  the  tip  of  the  great 
general's  cocked  hat  a  tiny  sparrow  had 
perched,  and  stood  coquettishly  picking  at 


12  &te  leart  of  (Did 


the  white  snowflakes  that  fell  upon  the  bronze 
brim. 

"  And  so  the  Banner  abuses  your  friend  ?  " 

The  Executive  turned  again  to  the  tatters, 
cosily  ensconced  in  the  soft  depths  of  the 
State's  purple.  The  old-young  head  nodded. 

"  And  what  does  it  say  of  him  ?  " 

He  wondered  if  it  could  abuse  any  one 
quite  so  soundly  and  so  mercilessly  as  it 
had  dealt  with  him. 

"  Aw,  sher  !  "  the  tatters,  in  state,  was 
growing  contemptuous.  "It  called  him  a 
6  mugwump*  ' 

The  Governor  colored;  it  had  said  the 
same  of  him. 

"  An',"  the  boy  went  on,  "  it  said  ez  ther' 
wa'n't  no  backbone  to  him,  an'  ez  he  wuz 
only  fitten  to  set  the  pris'ners  loose,  an'  to 
play  the  fiddle.  An'  it  said  a  lot  about  a 
feller  named  Ole  Poplar  -  " 

"What!" 

The  smile  upon  the  Governor's  lips  gave 


f^att  of  ©Id  prtwg.  13 

place  to  a  hearty  laugh,  as  the  odd  little 
visitor  ransacked  the  everglades  of  memory 
for  the  desired  timber  from  which  heroes  are 
hewn. 

"Poplar  ?  Ben't  it  poplar  ?  Naw, 
cedar, — ash,  wonnut,  hick'ry — that's  it  ! 
Hick'ry.  Ole  Hick'ry.  It  said  a  lot  about 
him ;  an'  it  made  the  boys  orf ul  mad,  an' 
they  won't  sell  the  nasty  paper." 

The  tatters  began  to  quiver  with  the  ex- 
citement of  the  recital.  The  little  old-young 
face  lost  something  of  its  patient,  premature 
age  while  the  owner  rehearsed  the  misdoings 
of  the  city's  independent  afternoon  journal. 

The  Executive  listened  with  a  smile  of 
amused  perplexity.  Evidently  he  was  the 
"  friend "  referred  to,  else  the  journal  had 
said  the  same  of  two  parties. 

"  Who  is  your  friend  ?  "  he  asked  vaguely 
wondering  as  to  what  further  developments 
he  might  expect. 

"  Aw,"  said  the  boy,   "  he  ain't  my  friend 


14  $te    ^att  of 


perzactly.  He's  Skinny's  though,  an'  all  the 
boys  stan's  up  for  Skinny." 

"And  who  is  '  Skinny'?" 

A  flash  of  contempt  shot  from  the  small, 
deep-set  eyes. 

"  Say,  cully,"  his  words  were  slow  and 
emphatic,  "wher'  wuz  you  raised?  Don't 
you  know  Skinny  ?  " 

The  Executive  shook  his  head.  "  Is  he 
a  newsboy  ?  " 

"He  wuz  —  "  the  tatters  were  still  a 
moment,  only  a  twitch  of  the  lips  and  a 
slight,  choking  movement  of  the  throat  told 
the  boy  was  struggling  with  his  emotions. 
Then  the  rough,  frayed  sleeve  was  drawn 
across  the  bundle  of  papers  strapped  across 
his  breast,  where  a  tear  glistened  upon  the 
front  page  of  the  Evening  Herald.  "  He 
wuz  a  newsboy  —  till  yistiddy.  We  buried 
uv  him  yistiddy." 

The  momentary  silence  was  broken  only 
by  the  soft  click  of  the  clock  telling  the 


irf  CDW  prftflft}.  15 


run  of  time.  It  was  the  Governor  who  spoke 
then.  "  And  this  man  whom  the  Banner 
abuses  was  Skinny's  friend." 

l{  Yes.  This  here  wuz  Skinny's  route. 
I  took  it  yistiddy.  Yer  see  Skinny  didn't 
have  no  mammy  an'  no  folks,  an'  no  meat 
outer  his  bones,  —  that's  why  we  all  named 
him  Skinny.  He  wuz  jest  b-o-n-z-e-s.  An' 
ther'  wuz  nobody  ter  keep  keer  uv  him  when 
he  wuz  sick,  an'  he  jest  up  an'  died." 

Without  the  window  the  snow  fell  softly, 
softly.  The  little  brown  bird  hopped  down 
from  the  great  general's  hat  and  sought 
shelter  in  the  bronze  bosom  of  his  fluted 
vesture.  Poor  little  snowbird  !  —  the  human 
waif  which  the  newsboys  had  buried  —  for 
him  the  bronze  bosom  of  Charity  had 
offered  no  shelter  from  the  storm.  The 
tatters  in  velvet  had  forgotten  the  cold,  and 
the  presence  before  him,  as  he  gazed  into  the 
dreamful  warmth  of  the  fire.  He  did  not 
see  the  motion  of  the  Governor's  hand  across 


16  ®h*  fart  of 

his  eyes,  nor  did  he  know  how  the  great  man 
was  rehearsing  the  Banner's  criticisms. 

"  He  cannot  hear  a  beggar's  tale  without 
growing  chicken-hearted  and  opening  the 
prison  doors  to  every  red-handed  murderer 
confined  there  who  can  put  up  a  pretty 
story." 

He  was  soft-hearted ;  he  knew  it,  and 
regretted  it  many  tunes  to  the  bronze 
general  at  the  window.  But  this  evening 
there  was  a  kind  of  defiance  about  him ;  he 
was  determined  to  dare  the  old  warrior- 
statesman,  and  the  slanderous  Banner — and 
his  own  "  chicken-heart,"  too. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  he,  "  about  this  friend  of 
Skinny's." 

"TheGov'ner?" 

"  Was  it  the  Governor?  " 

"  Say  ! "  Oh,  the  scorn  of  those  young 
eyes !  "  Is  ther'  anybody  else  can  pardon 
out  convicts  ?  In  course  'twuz  the  Gov'ner. 
Skinny  had  a  picture  uv  him,  too.  A  great 


of  m&  $icfc0rij.  17 

big  un,  an'  golly  !  but  'twuz  pritty.  Kep* 
it  hangin'  over  his  cot  what  Nickerson,  the 
p'liceman  ez  ain't  got  no  folks  neither,  like 
Skinny,  let  him  set  up  in  a  corner  o'  his 
room  down  ter  Black  Bottom.  Say,  cully, 
does  you  know  the  Gov'ner?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  go  on  with  your  story.  Tell 
me  all  about  Skinny  and his  friend  !  " 

The  tatters  settled  back  into  the  purple 
cushions.  The  firelight  played  upon  the 
little  old  face,  and  the  heat  drew  the  damp- 
ness from  the  worn  clothes,  enveloping  the 
thin  figure  in  a  vapor  that  might  have  been 
a  poetic  dream-mist  but  for  the  ragged 
reality  slowly  thawing  in  the  good  warmth. 
The  bundle  of  papers  had  been  lifted  from 
the  sunken  chest  and  placed  carefully  by  on 
the  crimson  and  olive  rug,  while  the  human 
bundle  settled  itself  to  tell  the  story  of 
Skinny. 

"  Me  an'  him  wuz  on  the  pris'n  route," 
said  he,  "  till — yistiddy.  Least  I  wuz  ther 


18  me     art  of 


till  yistiddy.  Skinny  tuk  this  route  last 
year.  He  begged  it  fur  me  when  he  —  come 
ter  quit,  because  I  ben't  ez  strong  ez  — 
Solermun,  you  know.  Wa'n't  he  the  strong 
un  ?  Solermun  or  Merthuslem,  I  git  mixed 
in  them  bible  fellers.  But  'twuz  when  we 
wuz  ter  the  pris'n  route  I  larnt  about 
Skinny's  friend,  the  Gov'ner,  you  know. 
First  ther'  was  ole  Jack  Nasby  up  an'  got 
parelized,  an'  w'an't  no  'count  ter  nobody, 
let  'lone  ter  the  State.  '  A  dead  expense,' 
the  ward'n  said.  He  suffered  orful,  too,  an' 
so'd  his  wife.  An'  one  day  Skinny  said  he 
wuz  goin'  ter  write  a  pertition  an'  git  all 
the  'fishuls  ter  sign  it,  an'  git  the  Gov'ner 
ter  pard'n  ole  Nasby  out.  They  all  signed 
it  —  one  o'  the  convic's  writ  it,  but  they  all 
told  Skinny  ez  'twuz  no  use,  'cause  he 
wouldn't  do  it.  An'  one  day,  don't  yer 
think  when  ole  Nasby  wuz  layin'  on  the 
hospittul  bunk  with  his  dead  side  kivered 
over  with  a  pris'n  blankit,  an'  his  wife  a- 


i*a*t  0*  m  itrfwjj.          19 


cryin'  becase  the  ward'n  war  'bleeged  ter 
lock  her  out,  the  Gov'ner  his  se'f  walked 
in.  An'  what  yer  reckin  he  done  ?  Cried  ! 
What  yer  think  o'  that,  cully  ?  Cried  ; 
an'  lowed  ez  how  '  few  folks  wuz  so  bad 
et  somebody  didn't  keer  fur  'em,'  an' 
then  he  called  the  man's  wife  back,  an' 
p'inted  ter  the  half  dead  ole  convic',  an'  told 
her  ter  (  fetch  him  home.'  Did  !  An'  the 
nex'  day  if  the  Banner  didn't  tan  him  ! 
Yer  jest  bet  it  did. 

"  An'  ther'  wuz  a  feller  ther'  been  in 
twenty  year,  an'  had  seventy-nine  more 
ahead  uv  him.  An'  one  night  when  ther' 
wa'n't  nobody  thinkin'  uv  it,  he  up  an'  got 
erligion.  An'  he  ain't  no  more  en  got  it, 
en  he  wants  ter  git  away  fum  ther'.  Prayed 
fur  it  constant  :  '  Lord,  let  me  out  !  '  '  Lord, 
let  me  out  !  '  That's  what  he  ud  say  ez  he 
set  on  the  spoke  pile  fittin'  spokes  fur  the 
Tennessee  wagins  ;  an'  a-cryin'  all  the  time. 
He  couldn't  take  time  ter  cry  an'  pray  'thout 


20  ®fo*     fcart  of 


cheat'n'  o'  the  State,  yer  know,  so  he  jest 
cried  an*  prayed  while  he  worked.  The 
other  prisoners  poked  fun  at  him  ;  an'  tol' 
him  if  he  got  out  they  ud  try  erligion  in 
theirn.  Yorter  seen  him  ;  he  wuz  a  good 
un.  Spec'  yer  have  heerd  about  him.  Did 
yer  heear  'bout  the  big  fire  that  bruk  out  in 
the  pris'n  las'  November,  did  yer  ?  " 

The  Governor  nodded  and  the  boy  talked 
on. 

"Well,  that  ther'  convic'  worked  orful 
hard  at  that  fire.  He  fetched  thirteen  men 
out  on  his  back.  They  wuz  suf'cated,  yer 
know.  He  fetched  the  warden  out,  too,  in 
his  arms.  An'  one  uv  his  arms  wuz  burnt 
that  bad  it  had  ter  be  cut  off.  An'  the 
pris'n  doctor  said  he  breathed  fire  inter  his 
lungs  or  somethin'.  An'  the  next  day  the 
Gov'ner  pard'ned  uv  him  out.  I  wuz  ther' 
when  the  pard'n  come.  The  warden's  voice 
trim'led  when  he  read  it  ter  the  feller  layin' 
bundled  up  on  his  iron  bunk.  An'  when  he 


of  m&     irfe0*i.  21 


heeard  it  he  riz  up  in  bed  an'  sez  he,  "  My 
prayers  is  answered  °,  tell  the  boys.'  The 
warden  bent  over  'im  ez  he  dropped  back  an' 
shet  his  eyes,  an'  tried  ter  shake  him  up. 
'  What  must  I  tell  the  Gov'ner  ?  '  sez  he. 
'  Tell  him,  God  bless  him.'  An'  that  wuz 
the  las'  word  he  ever  did  say  topside  o'  this 
earth.  Whatcher  think  o'  that,  cully  ? 
'Bout  ez  big  ez  the  Banner's  growl,  wa'n't 
it?" 

The  Executive  nodded  again,  while  the 
little  gossip  of  the  slums  talked  on  in  his 
quaint,  old  way,  of  deeds  the  very  angels 
must  have  wept  to  witness,  so  full  were  they 
of  glorious  humanity. 

"  But  the  best  uv  all  wuz  about  ole  Bemis," 
said  he,  re-arranging  his  tatters  so  that  the 
undried  portion  might  be  turned  to  the 
fire.  "  Did  you  ever  heear  about  ole 
Bemis  ?  " 

Did  he  ?  Would  he  ever  cease  to  hear 
about  him,  he  wondered.  Was  there,  could 


22  me  lart  of 

there  be  any  excuse  for  him  there?  The 
evening  Independent  thought  not.  Yet  he 
felt  some  curiosity  to  know  how  his  "  chicken- 
hearted  foolishness  "  had  been  received  in 
the  slums,  so  he  motioned  the  boy  to  go  on. 
Verily  the  tattered  gossip  had  never  had  so 
rapt  a  listener. 

"  Yer  see,"  said  he,  "  Bemis  wuz  a  banker ; 
a  reg'lar  rich  un.  He  kilt  a  man, — kilt  him 
dead,  too, — an*  yer  see,  cully,  'twas  his  own 
son-in-law.  An'  one  cote  went  dead  against 
him,  an'  they  fetched  it  ter  t'other,  '  s'preme ' 
or  '  sperm,'  or  somethin'.  An'  the  Banner 
said  '  he  orter  be  hung,  an'  would  be  if  the 
Guv'ner'd  let  him.  But  if  he'd  cry  a  little 
the  Guv'ner'd  set  him  on  his  feet  again, 
when  the  cotes  wuz  done  with  him.'  But 
that  cote  said  he  mus'  hang,  too,  an'  they 
put  him  in  jail ;  an'  befo'  they  had  the  trial, 
the  jailer  looked  fur  a  mob  ter  come  an' 
take  him  out  at  night  an'  hang  him.  He 
set  up  late  lookin'  fur  it.  But  stid  uv  a 


of  ®l&      *fc0ft.  23 


mob,  the  jailer  heerd  a  little  pitapat  on  the 
steps,  an'  a  little  rattle  uv  the  door,  an'  when 
he  opened  uv  it  ther'  wuz  a  little  lame 
cripple  girl  standin'  ther'  leanin'  on  her 
crutches  a-cryin',  an'  a-beggin'  ter  see  her 
pappy.  Truth,  cully  ;  cross  my  heart  " 
(and  two  small  fingers  drew  the  sign  of  the 
cross  upon  the  little  gossip's  breast). 
"  Atter  that,  folks  begin  ter  feel  sorry  fur 
the  ole  banker,  when  the  jailer  'd  tell  about 
the  little  crutch  ez  sounded  up'n  down  them 
jail  halls  all  day.  The  pris'ners  got  ter 
know  it,  an'  ter  wait  fur  it,  an'  they  named 
uv  her  '  crippled  angul,'  she  wuz  that  white 
an'  pritty,  with  her  blue  eyes,  an'  hair  like 
tumbled-up  sunshine  all  round  her  face. 
When  the  pris'ners  heerd  the  restle  uv  her 
little  silk  dress  breshin'  the  banisters  ez  she 
clomb  upstairs,  they  ud  say,  '  Ther's  the 
little  angul's  wings.'  An'  they  said  the  jail 
got  more  darker  after  the  wings  went  by. 
An'  when  they  had  that  ther'  las'  trial  uv  ole 


24  m*  !*m*  of 

Bemis,  lots  o'  meanness  leaked  out  ez  had 
been  done  him,  an'  it  showed  ez  the  pris'ner 
wa'n't  so  mightily  ter  blame  atter  all.  An' 
lots  of  folks  wuz  hopin'  the  ole  man  ud  be 
plumb  cleared.  But  the  cote  said  he  mus' 
hang,  hang,  hang.  Did ;  an'  when  it  said 
so  the  angul  fell  over  in  her  pappy's  arms, 
an'  her  crutch  rolled  down  an'  lay  aginst  the 
judge's  foot,  an'  he  picked  it  up  an'  belt  it  in 
his  ban'  all  the  time  he  wuz  saying  o'  the 
death  sentence. 

"  An'  the  Banner  said  '  that  wuz  enough 
fur  chicken-heart/ — an'  said  ever'body  might 
look  fur  a  pard'n  nex'  day.  An'  then 
whatcher  reckin  ?  What  do  yer  reckin, 
cully?  The  nex'  day  down  come  a  little 
yaller-headed  gal  ter  the  jail  a-kerryin  uv  a 
pard'n.  Whatcher  think  o'  that  ?  Wuz 
that  chicken  heart?  Naw,  cully,  that  wuz 
grit  Skinny  said  so.  An'  Skinny  said,— 
he  wuz  allus  hangin'  roun'  the  cap'tul, — an' 
he  heerd  the  men  talkin'  'bout  it.  An'  they 


of  (Mft  Prttat.  25 


said  the  little  gal  come  up  ter  see  the  Gov'- 
ner, an'  he  wouldn't  see  her  at  first.  But 
she  got  in  at  last,  an'  begged  an'  begged 
fur  the  ole  man  'bout  ter  hang. 

"  But  the  Gov'ner  wouldn't  lis'n,  till  aU't 
once  she  turned  ter  him  an'  sez  she,  (  Have 
you  got  a  chile  ?  '  An'  his  eyes  filt  up  in  a 
minute,  an'  sez  he,  '  One,  at  Mount  Olivet/ 
That's  the  graveyard,  yer  know.  Then  he 
called  his  sec't'ry  man,  an'  whispered  ter 
him.  An'  the  man  sez,  *  Is  it  wise  ?  '  An' 
then  the  Gov'ner  stood  up  gran'  like,  an'  sez 
he,  '  Hit's  right  ;  an'  that's  enough.'  Wa'n't 
that  bully,  though  ?  Wa'n't  it  ?  Say,  cully, 
whatcher  think  o'  that?  An'  whatcher 
lookin'  at  out  the  winder  ?  " 

The  shadows  held  the  tall  warrior  in  a 
dusky  mantle.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  old 
Hickory  indeed  lift  his  cocked  hat  a  trifle 
higher  ?  Old  bronze  hero,  did  he,  too,  hear 
that  click  of  a  child's  crutch  echoing  down  the 
dismal  corridors  of  the  grim  old  State  House, 


26  ^e  fart  ot  ®\& 

as  the  little,  misshapen  feet  sped  upon  their 
last  hope  ?  And  in  his  dreams  did  he  too 
hear,  the  Executive  wondered,  the  cry  of  a 
little  child  begging  life  of  him  who  alone 
held  it  ?  Did  he  hear  the  wind,  those  long 
December  nights,  moaning  over  Olivet  with 
the  sob  of  a  dead  babe  in  its  breath  ?  Did 
he  understand  the  human,  as  well  as  the 
heroic,  old  warrior-statesman  whose  immor- 
tality was  writ  in  bronze  ? 

"  Say,  cully,"  the  tatters  grew  restless  again, 
"  does  the  firelight  hurt  yer  eyes,  makes  'em 
water  ?  They  looks  like  the  picture  o' 
Skinny's  man  when  the  water's  in  'em  so. 
Oh,  but  hit's  a  good  picture.  It's  a  man, 
layin'  in  bed.  Sick  or  somethin',  I  reckin.' 
An'  his  piller's  all  ruffled  up,  an'  the  kiverlid 
all  white  ez  snow.  An'  his  face  has  got  a 
kind  o'  glory  look,  jest  like  yer  see  on  the 
face  o'  the  pris'n  chaplin  when  he's  a-prayin' 
with  his  head  up,  an'  his  eyes  shet  tight,  an* 
a  streak  o'  sunshine  comes  a-creepin'  in 


of  m&  tiring.  27 


through  the  gratin'  uv  the  winders  an' 
strikes  acrost  his  face.  That's  the  way 
Skinny  's  picture  man  looks,  only  ther'  ain't 
no  bars,  an'  the  light  stays  ther'.  An'  in 
one  corner  is  a  big,  big  patch  o'  light.  'Tain't 
sunshine,  too  soft.  An'  'tain't  moonlight,  too 
bright.  Hit's  dest  light.  An'  plumb  square 
in  the  middle  uv  it  is  a  angul  :  a  gal  angul, 
I  reckin,  becase  its  orful  pretty,  with  goldish 
hair,  an'  eyes  ez  blue  ez  —  that  cheer  yer 
head's  leaned  on.  An'  she  has  a  book,  a 
gold  un  ;  whatcher  think  o'  that  ?  An  she's 
writin'  down  names  in  it.  An'  the  man  in 
the  bed  is  watchin'  uv  her,  an'  tellin'  uv  her 
what  ter  do  ;  for  down  ter  the  bottom  ther's 
some  gol'-writin'.  Skinny  figgered  it  out 
an'  it  said,  '  Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his 
felloic-men.'  Ain't  that  scrumptious  ?  Yer 
jest  bet. 

"  I  asked  Skinny  once  what  it  meant,  and 
he  said  he  didn't  know  fur  plumb  certain, 
but  sez  he,  (  I  calls  it  the  Gov'ner,  Skip  :  the 


28  me     *art  of  GU 


Gov'ner  an'  the  crippled  angul.'  Atter  that 
Skinny  an'  me  an'  the  boys  allus  called  it  the 
Gov'ner.  Say  !  did  you  ever  see  the  Gov'- 
ner?" 

The  Executive  nodded;  and  the  tatters 
rising  and  sinking  back  again  with  vehemence 
in  accord  with  surprise,  threatened  to  leave 
more  than  a  single  mark  upon  the  State's 
purple. 

"  Oh,  say  now  !  did  yer  though  ?  An* 
did  he  look  this  here  way,  an'  set  his  chin  so, 
an'  keep  his  eyes  kind  o'  shet  's  if  he  wuz 
afeard  someun  ud  see  if  he  cried  an'  tell  the 
Banner  ez  ther'  wuz  tears  in  his  eyes  ? 
Skinny  said  he  did.  Skinny  didn't  lie,  he 
didn't. 

"  An'  did  yer  ever  heear  him  make  a 
speech  ?  Raily  now,  did  yer  ?  " 

The  spare  body  bent  forward,  as  if  the 
sharp  eyes  would  catch  the  faintest  hint  of 
falsehood  in  the  face  before  him.  "  Yorter 
heerd  him.  Skinny  did  once,  when  he  wuz 


Eh*  Icart  of  ®l&  pcfeorg.  29 

'norgrated,  yer  know.  An'  you  bet  he's 
gran',  then,  on  them  'norgrat'n  days.  He 
jest  up  an'  dares  the  ole  Banner.  An'  his 
speeches  goes  this  er  way." 

The  tatters  half  stood  j  the  sole  of  one 
torn  shoe  pressed  against  the  State's  purple 
of  the  great  easy-chair,  one  resting  upon  the 
velvet  rug.  One  small  hand  lightly  clasped 
the  arm  of  the  cherry  chair,  while  the  other 
was  enthusiastically  waved  to  and  fro  as  the 
vagabond's  deft  tongue  told  off  a  fragment 
of  one  of  the  Executive's  masterpieces  of 
eloquence  and  oratory. 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings," indeed,  poured  the  great  particle  of 
the  great  argument  that  had  swept  the  old 
Volunteer  State,  at  the  moment  of  its  finan- 
cial agony,  from  center  to  circumference  : 

"'The  so-called  "State  Bonds"  are 
against  the  letter  and  spirit  of  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,  which  declares, 
No  State  shall  grant  letters  of  marque  and 


30  WM     art  of 


reprisal,  coin  money,  or  emit  bills  of  credit. 
State  bonds  !  State  bonds  !  I  tell  you, 
friends  and  fellow-citizens,  that  is  the  name 
of  the  enemy  that  is  hammering  upon  that 
mighty  platform  upon  which  all  social,  poli- 
tical, and  financial  affairs  of  the  country  are 
founded  ;  the  palladium  of  our  liberties,  —  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States/  ' 

The  ragged  shoe  slipped  from  its  velvet 
pedestal,  the  now  dry  tatters  dropped  back 
into  the  luxuriant  softness  of  the  easy-chair. 
The  glow  of  excitement  faded  from  the  little 
old  face  that  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  older. 
The  man  watching  with  keen  surprise,  that 
was  indeed  almost  wonder,  saw  the  boy's  thin 
lips  twitch  nervously.  The  great  speech  was 
forgotten  in  the  mighty  memories  it  had 
stirred.  The  tattered  sleeve  was  drawn  across 
the  face  that  was  tattered  too,  and  it  was 
full  two  minutes  by  the  State's  bronze  clock, 
before  the  vagabond  held  control  of  his  feel- 
ings. 


0f  ®U      dwr.  31 


"  Say  !  "  he  ventured  again,  "  yorter 
knowed  Skinny.  He  wuz  the  nicest  boy 
yevver  did  see.  He  knowed  ever'thing,  he 
did.  See  the  Gov'ner  many  a  time.  Heerd 
him  say  that  very  speech  I'm  tellin'  you 
about.  In  this  very  house,  too,  upstairs, 
wher'  the  leguslater  sets.  I  peeped  in  while 
ago  ;  nobody  ther'  but  the  sextent.  Skinny 
heerd  the  Gov'ner  speak  ther'  though  —  an* 
when  the  ban'  played,  an'  the  folks  all  clap- 
ped their  hands,  Skinny  flung  his  hat  up, 
plumb  inter  the  big  chand'ler,  an'  hollered 
out  :  (  Hooray  for  the  Gov'ner  an'  the  Low 
Taxers  !  '  an'  a  p'liceman  fetched  him  out  by 
the  collar,  an'  when  he  got  out  the  cop  sez 
ter  him,  sez  he,  '  Now  whatcher  got  ter  say  ?  ' 
Skinny  wuz  a  Low  Taxer  his  own  se'f,  so 
when  the  cop  axed  him  for  his  say,  he  flung 
his  hat  up  todes  the  bare-headed  Liberty 
woman  out  ther'  at  the  front  door,  an'  sez 
he,  (  Hooray  !  fur  the  Gov'ner  an'  the  Low 
Tax  party.*  Did.  He  slep'  in  the  lock-up 


32  m  $mt  of 

that  night  fur  it,  you  bet ;  but  he  got  his 
holler.     He  wuz  a  plumb  good  un. 

"  Say,  cully !  I  wisht  yer  could  see 
Skinny's  picture  anyhow.  It's  over  ter 
hunchback  Harry's  house  now,  t'other  side  o' 
Hell's  Half.  Yer  know  Hell's  Half  acre? 
Awful  place.  Skinny  give  the  picture  ter 
Harry  'count  o'  his  not  bein'  able  ter  git 
about  much.  He  set  a  sight  o'  store  by  it, 
Skinny  did,  an'  he  didn't  lot  it  leave  him  till 
the  las'  minit ;  he  just  willed  it,  yer  know, 
to  hunchback  Harry.  When  he  wuz  a-dyin' 
he  turned  ter  me,  an'  sez  he,  '  Skip,  hang 
the  Gov'ner  so's  I  can  see  him.'  An'  when 
I  done  it,  he  sez,  sorter  smilin',  sez  he, '  Skip  ? ' 
Sez  I,  <  Skinny  ! '  Sez  he,  <  The  crippled 
angul  has  wiped  all  the  tears  out  o'  the  Gov'- 
ner's  eyes/  Then  he  fell  back  on  his  straw 
piller  an'  shet  his  eyes,  so ;  an'  after  while 
he  opened  uv  um,  an'  sez  he — so  soft  yerjest 
could  a-heerd  it ;  sez  he,  '  Write  me  ez  one 
who  loves  his  fellow-men.'  An'  that  wuz 


of  0td  Pcfconj.  33 


the  las'  word  he  ever  said  on  this  earth.  He 
had  a  nice  f  un'ril  ;  yer  bet.  Us  newsboys 
made  it  ;  an'  the  pris'n  chaplin  said  the 
sument.  We  bought  the  flowers,  us  boys 
did,  they  cos'  ten  dollars.  Ther'  wuz  a 
wreath  made  uv  white  roses,  an'  right  in  the 
middle,  made  out  o'  little  teeny  buds,  wuz 
his  name  —  (  Skinny.9  The  flower-man  said 
it  wouldn't  do,  when  we  told  him  ter  put  it 
ther,'  but  we  'lowed  'twuz  our  money  and 
our  fun'ril  and  if  we  couldn't  have  it 
our  way  we  wouldn't  have  it  at  all.  An'  he 
said  it  might  hurt  his  folkses'  feelin's  ;  but 
we  tol'  him  Skinny  didn't  have  no  folks,  an' 
no  name  neither,  'cept  jest  '  Skinny.'  So  he 
made  up  the  wreath  like  we  said,  an'  it's  out 
ther'  on  his  grave  this  blessed  minit,  if  the 
snow  ain't  kivered  it  up.  Say,  cully  !  Don't 
yer  be  a-cryin'  fur  Skinny.  He's  all  right  — 
the  chaplin  sez  so.  The  Gov'ner'd  cry  fur 
him  though,  I  bet  yer,  if  he  knowed  about 
the  fun'ril  yistiddy.  Mebbe  ole  Pop- 


34  ®THK     eart  of 


Hick'ry  wouldn't,  but  I  bet  the  Gov'ner 
would." 

The  face  of  the  Executive  was  turned  to- 
ward the  fire  —  a  tiny,  blue  blaze  shot  up- 
ward for  an  instant,  and  was  reflected  in  a 
diamond  setting  that  glittered  upon  his 
bosom.  A  match  to  the  sparkling  jewel 
rested  a  moment  upon  his  cheek,  then  rolled 
down  and  lay  upon  his  hand  —  a  bright, 
glistening  tear.  There  was  a  sound  of  heavy 
footsteps  coming  down  the  gray  stone  cor- 
ridor —  a  creak,  a  groan,  and  a  bang. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  the  newsboy,  start- 
ing up. 

"  That,"  said  the  Executive,  "  is  the  porter, 
closing  up  for  the  night." 

The  tatters  stood  as  near  upright  as  tatters 
may,  and  gathered  themselves  together. 
Not  a  paper  sold  ;  he  had  gossipped  away 
the  afternoon  with  right  royal  recklessness. 
He  remembered  it  too  late. 

"  Say  !    yer  wouldn't  want  a  Herald  f  " 


0f  $14      tfefltt.  35 


It  was  not  easy  to  talk  business  where  lately 
he  had  talked  confidence.  The  Executive's 
hand  sought  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  a  Herald  will  do. 
What  is  your  name,  boy  ?  " 

"  Skippy  !  'cause  I  don't  skip,  yer  know." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  vagabond's 
eye,  as  the  maimed  foot  was  thrust  forward. 
The  next  moment  he  glanced  at  the  coin 
the  Executive  had  handed  him. 

"  Say  !  I  can't  change  a  dollar  ;  hain't 
seen  that  much  money  since  the  bridge  wuz 
burnt." 

The  Executive  smiled.  "  Never  mind  the 
change,"  said  he,  "and  be  sure  you  bring 
me  to-morrow's  Herald" 

The  tatters  did  stand  upright  at  that,  while 
a  look  of  genuine  wonder,  not  unmixed  with 
admiration,  came  into  the  little  old-young 
face. 

"  Say  !  who  be  you  anyhow  ?  "  he  asked. 
And  the  lids  did  "  drop,"  as  the  Banner 


36  ®te     fcatf  of 


said,  "to  hide  the  tears,"  as  the  great  man 
answered  slowly  :  — 

"  I  am  the  Governor  of  Tennessee,  Skip." 
There  was  a  low  soft  whistle,  a  hurried 
shambling  toward  the  door,  a  half-whispered 
something  about  "  Skinny  "  and  "  old  Pop- 
Hickory,"  and  the  ponderous  door  closed 
behind  him.  When  the  fire  had  burned  so 
low  he  could  no  longer  see  the  print  of  the 
newsboy's  foot  upon  the  velvet  cushion  of 
the  arm-chair,  the  Governor  arose  and  began 
to  put  away  his  papers. 

"  Inasmuch  as  she  was  sorely  wronged  " 
—  his  eye  fell  upon  a  line  of  the  woman- 
murderer's  long  petition.  Was  this  a  "  case 
for  clemency,"  as  the  petition  declared? 
The  crisp  paper  rattled  strangely  as  he  un- 
rolled it,  and  fixed  his  own  name,  together 
with  the  great  seal  of  the  State,  to  the  few 
words  he  had  written.  It  is  a  grand  thing 
to  hold  life  in  the  hand  :  a  thing  next  to 
God  himself.  It  is  a  grander  thing  to  give 


Peart  of  (Old  lirfcortj.  37 

life,  and  nearer  to  God,  too,  for  is  not  God 
the  giver  of  all  life  ?  The  long  petition  lay 
in  the  Executive's  private  drawer ;  his  day's 
work  was  done;  to-morrow  the  despised 
afternoon  journal  would  sum  it  up  so : 
"  Pardoned  another  red-handed  Cain."  The 
angels  perhaps  might  record  it  something 
after  this  wise :  "  Saved  another  soul  from 
hell."  He  sighed,  and  thrust  the  few  re- 
maining papers  into  the  drawer,  locked  it,  and 
made  ready  to  go  home.  For  the  darkness 
had  indeed  fallen  ;  the  bronze  statue,  as  he 
sought  it  through  the  window,  had  become 
only  a  part  of  the  bronze  night.  But  the 
heart  of  old  Hickory  was  there,  in  his  own 
bosom,  throbbing  and  alive  with  the  burden 
of  humanity.  To-morrow  the  critics  might 
lash  ;  but  to-night — he  opened  the  door  of 
the  great  gray  corridor ;  the  wind  swept  with 
a  sepulchral  groan  through  the  vault-like 
gloom ;  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  leaden  sky, 
starless  and  cold. — "  Write  me,"  he  said, 


38  ®te    teart  at 


"  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men  ;  "  and 
blushed,  as  any  hero  might,  to  find  his  heart 
as  brave  as  its  convictions. 


FIDDLING  HIS  WAY  TO  FAME. 


WE  had  fallen  in  with  a  party  of  Alabama 
boys,  and  all  having  the  same  end  in  view, 
— a  good  time, — we  joined  forces  and  pitched 
our  tents  on  the  bank  of  the  Clinch,  the 
prettiest  stream  in  Tennessee,  and  set  about 
enjoying  ourselves  after  our  own  approved 
fashion. 

Even  the  important-looking  gentleman, 
sitting  over  against  a  crag  where  he  had 
dozed  and  smoked  for  a  full  hour,  forgot, 
for  the  nonce,  that  he  was  other  than  wit  and 
wag  for  the  company;  the  jolly  good  fel- 
low he,  the  free  man  (once  more),  and  the 
huntsman. 

Our  division    had   followed  the    hounds 

since  sun-up  ;  the  remainder  of  the  company 

39 


40  JUMIfog  hte  ma  to  Jam*. 

were  still  out  upon  the  river  with  rod  and 
line.  The  sun  was  about  ready  to  drop  be- 
hind Lone  Mountain,  that  solitary  peak,  of 
nobody  knows  precisely  what,  that  keeps  a 
kind  of  solemn  guard  upon  the  wayward 
little  current  singing  at  its  base.  Suppei 
was  ready;  the  odor  of  coffee,  mingled  with 
a  no  loss  agreeable  aroma  of  broiling  bacon, 
and  corn  cake,  was  deliciously  tantalizing  to 
a  set  of  weary  hunters.  But  we  were  to 
wait  for  the  boys,  that  was  one  of  our  rules, 
always  observed.  The  sun  set,  and  twilight 
came  on  with  that  subtle  light  that  is  half 
gloom,  half  glow,  and  mingled,  or  tried  to, 
with  the  red  glare  of  the  camp-fire. 

While  we  sat  there,  dozing  and  waiting, 
there  was  a  break  in  the  brush  below  the 
bluff  upon  which  we  were  camped.  "  A 
deer ! "  One  of  the  boys  reached  for  his 
rifle,  just  as  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  appeared 
above  the  bluff,  catching  as  he  came  at  the 
sassafras  and  hazel  bushes,  pulling  himself 


his  SWag  to  gme.  41 


up  until  he  stood  among  us  a  very  Saul  in 
height,  and  a  Goliath,  to  all  seeming,  in 
strength. 

He  took  in  the  camp,  the  fire,  and  the 
group  at  a  glance.  But  the  figure  over 
against  the  crag  caught  his  best  attention. 
There  was  a  kind  of  telegraphic  recognition 
of  some  description,  for  the  giant  smiled  and 
nodded. 

"  Howdye,"  he  said  ;  and  our  jolly  com- 
rade took  his  pipe  from  between  his  lips  and 
returned  the  salutation  in  precisely  the  same 
tone  in  which  it  was  given. 

"  Howdye  ;  be  you-uns  a-travelin'  ?  " 

The  giant  nodded,  and  passed  on,  and  our 
comrade  dropped  back  against  the  crag, 
and  returned  to  his  pipe.  But  a  smile 
played  about  his  lips,  as  if  some  very 
tender  recollection  had  been  stirred  by  the 
passing  of  the  gaunt  stranger. 

It  was  one  of  the  Alabama  boys  who 
broke  the  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  us. 


42  JiMtitt0  fete  Wag  to  Jaw*. 

He  had  observed  the  sympathetic  recognition 
that  passed  between  the  two  men,  and  had 
noted  the  naturalness  with  which  the  "  dia- 
lect "  had  been  returned. 

"I'll  wager  my  portion  of  the  supper," he 
said,  "that  he  is  aTennessean,  and  from  the 
hill  country."  He  pointed  in  the  direction 
taken  by  the  stranger.  He  missed,  however, 
the  warning — "  Sh  !  "  from  the  Tennessee 
side. 

"  A  Tennessee  mountaineer — "  he  went 
on.  "His  speech  bewrayeth  him." 

Then  one  of  our  boys  spoke  right  out. 

"  Look  out ! "  said  he,  "  the  Governor  is 
from  the  hill  country  too." 

The  silence  was  embarrassing,  until  the 
man  over  against  the  crag  took  the  pipe 
from  between  his  lips,  and  struck  the  bowl 
upon  his  palm  gently,  the  smile  still  linger- 
gering  about  his  mouth. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  was  born  among  the 
hills  of  Tennessee.  (  The  Barrens,'  geolo- 


tag  ^aij  to  £me.  43 


gists  call  it  ;  the  poets  name  it  '  Land  of  the 
Sky.'  My  heart  can  find  for  it  no  holier 
name  than  —  home." 

The  Governor  leaned  back  against  the 
crag;.  We  knew  the  man,  and  wondered  as 

O  ' 

to  the  humor  that  was  upon  him.  Politician, 
wit,  comrade,  gentleman  ;  as  each  we  knew 
him.  But  as  native,  mountaineer,  ah  !  he 
was  a  stranger  to  us  in  that  role.  We  had 
heard  of  the  quaint  ease  with  which  he  could 
drop  into  the  speech  of  his  native  hills,  no 
less  than  the  grace  with  which  he  filled  the 
gubernatorial  chair. 

He  had  "  stumped  the  state  "  twice  as 
candidate,  once  as  elector.  His  strange, 
half-humorous,  half-pathetic  oratory  was 
familiar  in  every  county  from  the  mountains 
to  the  Mississippi.  But  the  native  ;  —  we  al- 
most held  our  breath  while  the  transforma- 
tion took  place,  and  the  governor-orator 
for  the  moment  became  the  mountaineer. 

"  I  war  born,"  he  said,  "  on  the  banks  o* 


44 

the  Wataugy,  in  the  county  uv  Cartir, — in 
a  cabin  whose  winders  opened  ter  the  East, 
an'  to'des  the  sunrise.  That  war  my  old 
mother's  notion  an'  bekase  it  war  her  notion 
it  war  allus  right  ter  me.  Fur  she  was  not 
one  given  ter  wrong  ideas. 

"  I  war  her  f averse  chil'  uv  the  seven  God 
give.  My  cheer  set  nighest  hers.  The 
yaller  yarn  that  slipped  her  shiny  needles 
first  slipped  from  hank  ter  ball  acrost  my 
sunburnt  wrists.  The  mug  uv  goldish  cream 
war  allus  at  my  plate;  the  cl'arest  bit  uv 
honey-comb,  laid  crost  the  biggis'  plug  uv 
pie,  war  allus  set  fur  me.  The  bit  o'  extry 
sweetnin'  never  missed  my  ole  blue  chiny 
cup. 

"  An'  summer  days  when  fiel'  work  war  a- 
foot,  a  bottle  full  o'  fraish  new  buttermilk 
war  allus  tucked  away  amongst  the  corn 
pones  in  my  dinner  pail. 

"  An'  when  I  tuk  ter  books,  an'  readin' 
uv  the  papers,  an'  the  ole  man  riz  up  ag'inst 


*0  Jam*.  45 

it,  bekase  I  war  more  favored  ter  the  book 
nor  ter  the  plough,  then  my  old  mount'n 
mammy,  ez  allus  stood  'twixt  me  an*  wrath, 
she  riz  up  too,  an'  bargained  with  the  ole 
man  fur  two  hours  uv  my  time.  This  war 
the  bargain  struck.  From  twelve  er'clock 
ontil  the  sun  marked  two  upon  the  kitchen 
doorstep  I  war  free. 

"  Ever'  day  fur  this  much  I  war  free. 
An'  in  my  stid,  whilst  I  lay  under  the  hoss 
apple  tree  an'  figgered  out  my  book  stuff, 
she  followed  that  ole  plough  up  an'  down  the 
en'less  furrers  acrost  that  hot  ontrodd'n 
fiel' — in  my  stid. 

"  I've  travelled  some  sence  then,  ploughed 
many  a  furrer  in  the  fiel'  o'  this  worl's 
troubles,  an'  I  hev  foun'  ez  ther'  be  few  ez 
keers  tur  tek  the  plough  whilst  I  lay  by  ter 
rest. 

"  An'  when  the  work  war  done,  an' 
harvest  in,  Ituk  ter  runnin'  down  o'  nights 
ter  hear  the  boys  discuss  the  questions  o'  the 


46  JiMtittg  fcte  m»  t0  Jam*. 


day  at  Jube  Turner's  store  over  ter  the  set- 
tlemint. 

"  'Twar  then  the  ole  man  sot  his  foot  down. 

"  '  It  hev  ter  stop  !  '  he  said.  '  The  boy 
air  comin'  ter  no  good.' 

"  Then  my  ole  mammy  riz  agin,  an* 
set  down  ez  detarmint  ez  him  ;  an'  sez 
she  :  — 

"  {  He  be  a  man,  an'  hev  the  hankerin's  uv  a 
man.  The  time  hev  come  fur  me  ter  speak. 
The  boy  must  hev  his  I'arnin'-books  his  min' 
calls  fur.  He  aims  ter  mix  with  men  ;  an* 
you  an'  me,  ole  man,  must  stand  aside,  an' 
fit  him  fur  the  wrastle  ez  be  boun'  ter  come. 
Hit  air  bespoke  fur  him,  an'  ther'  ben't 
no  sense  in  henderin'  sech  ez  be  bespoke 
beforehan'.' 

"  She  kerried,  an'  I  went  ter  school.  The 
house  air  standin'  now  —  a  cabin  in  the  valley, 
nigh  the  banks  o'  the  Wataugy.  I  tuk  ter 
books,  they  said,  like  beans  ter  cornstalks. 
An'  winter  nights  I'd  pile  the  pine  knots  on 


Way  to  Jaw*.  47 

the  fire,  to  light  me  ter  the  secrets  uv  them 
blue  an*  yaller  kivers. 

"  An'  she'd  set  by  an'  holp  me  with  her 
presence,  my  ole  mount'n  mother  would. 
She  even  helped  to  gether  up  the  pine  knots 
when  the  days  war  over  short.  She  helped 
me  ever  way.  Her  heart  retched  down  ter 
mine  an'  1'arned  its  needs,  an'  holped  ter 
satisfy  them.  She  flung  the  rocks  out  uv 
my  way,  openin'  up  the  path  before — the 
path  her  partial  eye  had  sighted,  every  inch 
uv  it. 

"  She  saved  the  butter  an'  sent  it  off  ter 
the  settlemint  ter  sell  it,  so's  I  could  hev  a 
daily  paper,  when  she  see  ez  I  war  hankerin' 
fur  it. 

"  An'  when  it  kem,  I'd  set  ther'  on  a  kaig 
an'  read  it  ter  the  mount'n  boys,  an'  Jube ; 
they-uns  flocked  ter  me  like  crows  flockin' 
ter  a  corn-field ;  an'  me  it  war,  a  mount'n 
stripplin',  ez  dealt  the  word  o'  politics  ter 
they-uns. 


48 

"  But  somethin'  worrit  me  :  a  hitch  war  in 
my  Tarnin'.  Still,  the  ole  man  in  the  cabin 
begin  ter  grow  more  easy-like  an'  teok  ter 
readin'  an'  war  not  ill-pleased  ter  git  the 
news.  An'  he  fretted  sometimes  ef  I  tarried 
ter  the  store,  bekase  he  war  a-waitin'  fur  the 
news.  But  I  war  troubled ;  and  that  eye  ez 
war  allus  open  ter  my  ailments  see  that  I  war 
worrit.  An*  one  day  when  I  kem  down  the 
road,  she  met  me,  my  ole  mammy,  an'  she 
put  her  hand  onter  my  arm,  an'  walked  along 
o'  me.  An'  sez  she  : — 

"  '  What  air  it,  son,  ez  be  a-troublin'  uv 
ye,  I  be  yer  mammy,  an'  ez  sech  yer  frien', 
an'  I  aims  ter  know  yer  ailments.' 

"  An'  I  tuk  that  tremblin'  hand  close  inter 
mine,  an'  I  spoke  my  min',  my  feelin's, 
freely. 

" '  I  be  worrit,'  sez  I,  '  becase  I  be  enable 
ter  make  out  ef  I  be  right  or  no.' 

" '  In  politics  ? '  sez  she. 

" '  Yaas/  sez  I,  ( in  politics.     I  git  but 


hfe  mtj  to  Jam*.  49 

one  side  o'  the  matter,  an'  I  know  ez  ther' 
be  two.  An'  I  ben't  satisfied  with  this  side, 
an'  still  I  be  enable  ter  make  out  the  other  ! ' 

"  She  onriddled  me  at  onc't. 

" t  You-uns  must  hev  the  other  paper,  son,' 
sez  she.  'Your  granddad  war  a  politician 
under  Clay  ;  an'  ther'  war  two  sides  then,  an' 
ther'  air  boun'  ter  be  two  now,  although  the 
word  uv  it  may  not  retch  the  Wataugy.' 

"  I  never  will  furgit  the  first  day  it  kem, 
that  Dimercratic  paper.  I  went  ter  the  settle- 
mint,  I  knowed  the  paper  war  a  comin,  an'  I 
guessed  what  it  would  be ;  a  coal  o'  fire  ter 
that  Republican  stronghold. 

"  I  tuk  my  fiddle  down ;  it  war  my 
mother's  thought. 

"  '  Play  'em  Sally  Gal,'  sez  she,  '  afore  the 
mail  comes.' 

"  I  done  it ;  an'  they-uns  war  toler'ble 
f rien'ly ;  fur  the  mount'n  boys  allus  hev  a 
weakness  fur  a  fiddle  an'  a  mount'n  fiddler. 

"  But  when  the  mail  war  opened — Laud ! 


50  JMAttttg  hiss  Wmj  t0  Jaw*. 

how  they  swore  an'  tuk  on.  Some  laffed ;  a 
mighty  few  though,  an'  some  winked  ter  one 
ernother.  Some  cussed  outright  an'  all  war 
thunderstruck.  Ez  fur  me,  I  went  out  ter 
it,  an'  it  kem  in  ter  me.  I  war  a  Dimercrat 
from  that  good  day. 

"  I  tuk  it  home ;  the  ole  man  list'ned, 
countin'  it  a  mighty  joke  ter  hear  me  an' 
brother  Alf  argerfyin'  'bout  the  two  sides,  an' 
sometimes  he'd  say  which  beat  in  argerfyin', 
but  he  mostly  allus  went  with  Alf.  Bimeby 
Alf  tuk  the  Republican  paper,  ez  my  time 
give  out,  an*  we-uns  went  tergether  ter  the 
settlemint ;  an'  we'd  mount  a  kaig,  him  on 
one,  and  me  on  t'other,  and  we'd  give  the 
news  ter  both  sides,  him  an'  me.  Some  few 
sided  long  o'  me,  but  most  war  tuk  to  Alf. 
An'  so  it  war  onderstood  ez  I  war  Dimercrat, 
and  Alf  Republican. 

"  It  tickled  the  ole  man  mightily.  He 
useter  call  in  the  Wataugy  boys  ter  hear  us 
argerfy  o'  nights,  and  they-uns  sot  in  jedg- 


to  Jaw*.  51 

mint  ez  ter  which  uv  we-uns  war  the  best  at 
sech.  Alf  allus  got  the  vote,  an'  one  night 
I  riz  up  ;  fur  I  war  mad  some,  an'  I  give  the 
word  ez  how  a  Dimercrat  would  never  stan' 
no  chance  o'  justice  in  sech  a  onfair  destrict. 
They-uns  laffed,  but  ther  was  one  ez  sot  her 
face  aginst  sech.  '  A  house  set  against  itself 
air  boun'  ter  come  ter  bad  luck,'  my  ole 
mother  said. 

"  One  day  ther'  war  a  meetin'  ter  the 
settlemint,  a  political  meetin',  an'  Jube  war 
buckin'  up  the  boys  right  peart,  an'  war 
about  ter  sweep  off  everthing.  I  moved 
about  a  bit  among  they-uns,  an'  after  a  little 
the  word  war  giv  ez  ther'  war  a  split. 

"  Then  kem  a  row,  an'  Jube  he  druv  the 
Dimercrats  out  'n  o'  his  store,  an'  they  held 
the'r  meetin'  in  the  blacksmith's  shop.  An* 
I  war  goin'  out  along  o'  they-uns,  an*  Jube 
see  me  ;  an'  he  scz,  sez  he : — 

"  (  Come  back  here,  Bob,  an'  vote  your 
good  ole  daddy's  principles.'  Fur  Jube  war 


52  JiMin0  lite  Wat)  to 

boss  o'  that  ther'  destrict.  But  I  war  mad, 
an'  I  sez,  sez  I : — 

" { I  aims  ter  vote  my  own  principles/  sez 
I,  '  an'  they  be  Dimercratic.' 

"  An'  when  that  day  war  over,  ole  Si 
Ridley  he  rid  over  ter  we-uns'  cabin  on  the 
Wataugy  an'  give  the  word  as  I  war  nom- 
inated ter  the  Legislatur  aginst  big  Judge 
Griggsby,  the  rankest  Republican  ter  all  that 
county. 

"  Then  the  ole  man  riz  up  in  real  dead 
earnest.  He  named  me  fur  a  idiot  an'  a  up- 
start, an'  let  on  ez  how  he  never  'lowed  that 
playful  argerfyin'  o'  Alf  an'  me  would  ever 
be  tuk  fur  more'n  a  little  playful  talk. 

"  He  swore  he'd  thrash  the  heresy  out  o' 
me.  Then  my  ole  mammy,  she  riz  up. 

"  '  Nary  lick,  Josiah,'  sez  she.  '  He  hev 
the  right  ter  choose,  an'  he  hev  done  it.' 

"  Then  he  give  the  word  ez  he'd  vote 
aginst  me  same's  he  would  any  other  Dimer- 
crat.  He  kept  his  word.  On  the  day  uv 


g  fcte  ^Itfajj  to  Jaw*.  53 

election  him  an'  the  boys  went  over  ter 
Jube's  ter  vote. 

"  Folks  showed  considerable  interest,  al- 
lowing ez  blood  war  more  stronger  nor 
politics,  an'  that  the  ole  man  would  come 
over  ter  me  in  the  eend. 

"  But  he  didn't ;  he  jest  voted  clean  an' 
open  fur  Griggsby,  an'  I  'lowed  the  boys 
would  foller  his  lead.  But  when  my  oldest 
brother  stepped  up  an'  drapped  in  a  vote 
fur  me,  I  cl'ar  furgot  myself,  an'  I  jest  flung 
up  my  hat  an'  shouted,  '  Count  one  fur  the 
Dimercrat.' 

"  The  ole  man  war  pow'ful  mad.  But 
when  Alf  an'  Dave  an'  Hugh  voted  with  him, 
it  kinder  eased  him  some.  But  when  the 
next  cast  lots  with  me,  I  yelled  again. 

" ( Hooray  fur  Dimocracy  ! '  sez  I.  An' 
the  ole  man  he  jest  lifted  up  his  ridin'  switch, 
an'  sez  he : — 

"  '  Stop,  sir  !  Take  off  your  coat,  sir.  I'll 
thrash  that  Dimocracy  out  o'  you.' 


54  JiMlittfl  hi0  Wag  to 

"  Ye  could  a  heerd  a  pin  drap.  Then  I 
ketched  ole  Jube  Turner's  eye.  He  allus 
'lowed  ther'  war  no  backbone  to  a  Dimercrat. 
An'  when  I  see  him  I  flung  back  my  coat  an' 
bowed  my  shoulders  fur  the  ole  man's  lash. 

"  The  boys  drapped  back,  disappointed, 
an'  I  heard  a  hiss  ez  the  first  blow  fell. 
Forty  licks.  I  tuk  'em  without  a  tremble. 
An*  when  the  last  un  fell,  I  riz  up  an'  tore 
off  my  hat,  an'  tossed  it  up  ter  the  rafters, 
an'  sez  I,  ez  loud  ez  I  could,  ( Hooray  fur 
Dimocracy !  Forty  lashes  hev  heat  it  ter  red- 
hot  heat.' 

"  Then  a  yell  went  up,  an'  I  knowed  ez 
Carter  County  war  gone  Dimercratic  fur 
onc't,  afore  ole  Jube  stepped  out  afore  the 
boys,  an'  tuk  off  his  hat  an'  sez,  '  I  be  fur 
the  feller  ez  can't  be  beat  out  o'  his  prin- 
ciples.' 

"  Them  war  stormy  times  in  the  cabin  on 
the  Wataugy,  I  kin  tell  ye.  The  boys  built 
a  bonfire  top  o'  Lynn  Mount'n  jest  acrost 


fei*  Sltfatj  to  <f  am*.  55 

the  river.  It  lit  up  the  kentry  fur  miles,  an' 
my  ole  mammy  watched  it  through  her  tears 
ez  she  stood  in  the  cabin  door;  but  the  old 
man  didn't  speak  ter  me  no  more  till  I  war 
startin'  off  ter  Nashvill  ter  tek  my  seat,  ez 
( the  member  from  Carter.' 

"  But  my  ole  mammy  follered  me  down 
ter  the  settlement,  wher'  the  boys  war  waitin' 
ter  say  good-by,  an'  she  tuk  my  han'  'n 
hers,  an'  sez  she  : — 

" '  Legislatur  or  plow-boy,  remember  ye 
air  born  to  die  ! ' 

" '  Mend  up  the  road  law/  said  Jube,  at 
partin',  <  an'  let  down  the  gap  ter  the  still 
house.'  Far  Jube  had  a  taste  fur  apple- 
juice  an'  corn  squeezin's. 

"  Waal,  I  moved  along  toler'ble  peart. 
Ef  I  could  set  the  boys  a-laffin',  I  war 
toler'ble  sartin'  ter  kerry  my  p'int.  Ef  I 
couldn't,  someun  would  move  adjournmint, 
'  Ter  give  Bob  tune  ter  ile  up,'  they  said. 
( Hin'  up  '  meant  gettin'  my  fiddle  ready  an* 


56  JiMlittfl  to  Wajj  to  Jaw*. 

callin'  the  boys  tergether  in  a  committee- 
room  or  somewher's,  an'  tollin'  'em  inter 
measures  with  '  Rabbit  in  the  Pea  Patch' — 
'  Chicken  in  the  Bread  Tray  ' — an'  some  o' 
the  other  mount'n  tunes.  The  mount'n 
boys  war  allus  sure  to  come  under  after  a 
pull  at  the  ole  riddle.  It  jest  put  'em  inter 
a  kind  o'  jubilee  that  would  a'  let  the  State 
o'  Tennessee  go  ter  the  devul,  ef  unly  the 
fiddle  war  left. 

" '  Remember  ye  air  born  ter  die.'  I 
could  hear  it  in  the  twang  o'  the  fiddle- 
strings,  a-playin'  the  boys  inter  harness,  in 
the  clerk's  voice  a-callin'  the  roll,  in  the 
speaker's  gavil  a-knockin'  fur  order. 

"  One  mornin'  ther'  war  a  big  railroad 
bill  afore  the  House,  an'  the  Dimercrats 
went  one  side  the  track,  and  the  Republi- 
cans went  t'other.  An'  I  sot  ther'  awaitin' 
my  turn  ter  vote  ;  an'  when  it  kem,  I  riz  up 
scarcely  knowin'  what  I  war  a-doin',  an'  sez 
I:— 


t0  Jaw*,  57 

" '  I  be  born  ter  die  !  I  be  aginst  that 
bill/ 

"  An'  the  boys  set  up  a  yell,  a-callin'  ter 
me  not  ter  do  it.  An'  the  nex'  day  the 
papers  named  me  fur  a  Jonah,  an'  said  ez  I 
war  showin'  uv  the  East  Tennessee  streak 
ter  my  bacon.  The  streak  in  East  Ten- 
nessee bacon  air  a  Republican  streak,  they 
'lowed.  An'  they  made  game  o'  my  sayin' 
I  war  born  ter  die.  I  went  ter  bed  that 
night  toler'ble  crushed.  But  in  my  dreams, 
I  war  back  ter  the  fair  valley  o'  the 
Wataugy,  an'  a  face  deep-scarred  an'  wrinkled 
riz  up  afore  me,  an  a  pair  o'  faded  eyes 
looked  inter  mine,  an'  I  heeard  the  voice  o' 
my  ole  mammy,  '  Stan'  by  your  principles. 
Ye  air  born  to  die  ! ' 

"  So  I  went  'long.  One  day  ther'  war  a 
mighty  rumpus  over  a  bill  to  shet  off  gamblin' 
in  the  State  o'  Tennessee.  Times  were  hot, 
an'  word  war  give  ez  how  some  aimed  ter 
hev  that  bill,  spite  o'  locks  an'  safes  an* 


58  JUWtfog  M0  Wm}  to  Jam*. 

clerks  an'  sargeants.  Ther'  war  a  night 
session.  An'  I  war  at  it.  An'  ez  I  run  my 
han'  inter  my  desk,  it  tetched  a  package.  I 
tuk  it  up  ;  pinned  ter  it  war  a  note.  '  $5,000 
fur  a  vote  against  the  Gamblin'  Bill,'  it  said. 
I  dropped  my  head  on  my  desk  an'  groaned. 
I  war  unly  a  mount'n  stripplin',  an'  that 
temptation  war  orful,  orful. 

" '  Remember  ye  air  born  ter  die.'  Ole 
mount'n  mother.  I  could  hear  her  voice 
above  the  voice  o*  the  tempter. 

"  When  my  name  war  called,  I  riz  up, 
that  roll  o'  gunpowder  in  my  hand.  I  helt 
it  out  afore  'em  all,  high  up  ez  I  could  retch, 
an'  I  yelled  out  in  reg'lar  mount'n  fashion — 
1  Who  bids  ?  '  sez  I,  <  who  bids  ?  Five 
thousan'  fur  some  man's  honor.  Come  an' 
git  it  whosoever  air  minded.  Ez  fur  me,  I 
air  not  a  bidder.' 

"  An'  I  flung  it  with  all  my  might  acrost 
the  house,  an'  I  heeard  it  fall  at  the  clerk's 
feet  ez  I  called  ter  him  to  put  me  down 


hte  mg  to  Jaw*.  59 

fur  that  bill.  '  Fur  it,  till  the  crack  o' 
doom.' 

"  Laud  !  I  never  kalkulated  on  raisin' 
such  a  rumpus.  I  war  the  bigges'  man  in 
Tennessee  that  night.  I  went  ter  bed,  ter 
be  woke  up  by  the  brass  band  under  my 
winder,  a-playin'  t  Hail  ter  the  Chief.' 

"  I  war  allus  a  fool  about  a  band  anyhow, 
an'  when  I  heeard  that  grand  old  tune, 
played  fur  me, — me,  I  jest  drapped  back 
'mongst  the  kivers  and  cried  like  a  baby. 

"  Me,  hid  away  in  a  forty-ninth  class 
bo'rdin'  house, — me,  the  plow-boy  o'  the 
Wataugy.  Then  the  boys  bust  in  an' 
ordered  me  inter  my  clothes,  an'  drug  me 
out  fur  a  speech.  An'  when  I  heeard  the 
yellin',  sez  I,  '  Boys,  in  the  name  o'  creation 
what  hev  I  done  ? '  An'  some-un  said,  sez 
he,  l  Ye've  turned  the  water-pipe  loose  on 
hell, — that's  what  ye've  done.' 

"  I  went  home  shortly  after  that — went  a- 
wonderin'  what  Jube  would  say.  Fur  Jube 


60  giUlfaQ  ftfe  Watj  to  Jam*. 

war  toler'ble  fond  uv  ole  Sledge  now'n 
then. 

"  Waal,  I  hev  hed  some  success,  I  say  it 
meekly ;  an'  I  hev  felt  some  little  pride,  I 
say  it  meekly ;  an'  I  hev  hed  some  happy 
minutes  in  my  life.  But  the  nappies' 
minute  I  ever  knowed  war  that  minute  when 
I  sot  my  foot  on  my  native  East  Tennessee 
sile  agin,  an'  felt  the  hand  o'  honest  old  Jube 
Turner  tek  holt  o'  mine  an'  wring  it  hard, 
whilst  he  looked  away  to'des  the  blue  hills, 
for  the  tears  war  in  his  eyes,  an'  sez  he : 
'  Ye'll  do  ter  trust,  youngster ! ' 

"  The  ox-wagin  war  ther'  ter  meet  me  ter 
fetch  me  up  the  mount'n.  The  ole  steers, 
Buck  and  Bill,  hed  flags  a-flyin'  from  ther 
horns,  an'  the  wagin  war  all  kivered  up  in 
cedar  branches  an'  the  pretty  pink  azalea 
that  growed  right  around  our  cabin  door. 
An'  h'isted  squar'  on  top  uv  all  war  a  pole, 
a  sign-board,  with  a  flag  a-flyin',  an'  on  it  my 
ole  school-marm  hed  writ  a  line  : — 


to     mt.  61 


"'  The  plow-boy  o'  the  Wataugy;  Truth, 
the  sledge  hammer  o'  the  mountaineer  !  ' 

"  An'  how  the  boys  did  shout  !  They 
fairly  drug  me  ter  the  wagin,  an'  then  all 
fell  inter  line,  an'  sot  out  fur  the  cabin  long 
side  the  Wataugy. 

"  Home  !  that  little  cabin  wher'  the 
winders  turned  ter  meet  the  sun  ;  the  waters 
sing  ther'  all  the  year  aroun',  sing  and 
sob.  One  part  the  pretty  river  red'nin' 
in  the  sun,  an'  t'other  dead  black  with  the 
shadow  uv  the  pines  that  cap  the  summit  uv 
Lynn  Mount'n. 

"  An'  the  boys  come  down  ter  meet  me 
at  the  bars,  an'  the  ole  man,  proud  uv  his 
son,  ashamed  uv  the  Dimercrat,  leanin'  on 
his  staff  under  the  greenin'  hop-vines.  An', 
best  uv  all,  the  vision  uv  a  little  woman 
standin'  in  the  door,  shadin'  her  eyes  aginst 
the  sunlight,  waitin'  fur  her  boy. 

"  The  flag  floated  above  my  head  ;  the 
boys  yelled  the'rse'ves  hoarse  ;  the  wagin 


62  JiMifog  W  Wag  t0  Jam*. 

creaked,  an'  Jube's  whip  cracked  about  the 
spotted  steer's  back.  But  I  heeard  nothin' ; 
I  seed  nothin',  but  my  mother  waitin*  in  the 
door.  She  tuk  me  in  her  arms,  an'  drapped 
her  cheek  upon  my  bosom. 

"  *  My  boy,'  she  said ;  an'  it  war  wuth  ten 
times  over  the  whole  that  I  hed  won. 

"But  the  ole  man  war  worrit.  A  sign 
pinned  ter  the  wagin-hed  hed  tuk  his  eye. 

" '  The  Champion  o'  Democracy,'  it  said. 

" { Take  it  down,'  said  some  one,  i  it 
worries  the  ole  man.'  An'  one  riz  up  ter  cut 
it  down.  But  I  war  ther'  afore  him,  an'  I 
retched  out  ter  take  the  hand  that  would  cut 
away  my  colors. 

"  *  Stop ! '  sez  I.  '  Boys,'  I  went  on, 
'  they  be  my  colors.  I'll  not  hide  'em  from 
the  eye  uv  God  or  man.' 

"  Then  they  raised  a  shout :  '  Them 
colors'!!  stan'  ye  good  stead  fur  Congress/ 
they  said,  'bimeby.' 

"  They  done  it.     It  war  this  way.     Ther' 


Jifldtittg  W0  Sltfaij  10  g am*.  63 

war  foul  play  in  the  convention,  the  Re- 
publican convention.  An'  ole  Bony  Petti- 
brash,  who  aimed  to  boss  that  kentry,  got 
the  nomination.  That  riled  the  boys,  and 
they-uns  swore  he  never  should  be  elected. 
So  when  the  Dimercrats  nomernated  me,  the 
t'other  elemint  being  ag'inst  ole  Petti- 
brash  come  out  fur  me,  an*  I  went  ter  Con- 
gress. 

"  I  had  ter  work  fur  it  though,  fur  Petti- 
brash  hed  his  follerin'.  He  war  a  pow'ful 
hand  at  argerfyin',  though  not  much  on  a 
joke.  He  war  long-winded,  an'  my  unly 
chance  war  in  the  fac'  that  the  boys  got 
tired  uv  him.  I  laid  my  plans — 'twas  my 
ole  mammy  holped  me,  an'  suggested. 

"  One  night  we-uns  war  ter  meet  at  the 
log  school-house  an'  discuss  matters.  A  big 
crowd  war  ter  be  ther',  an'  I  tuk  my  fiddle 
along,  accer dentally,  so  ter  speak.  The 
boys  war  lookin'  oneasy. 

"'  Can't  ye  tell  a  good  coon  yarn,  Bob?' 


64  Jilting  M0  Wajj  to 

they  sez.  But  Jube  'lowed  a  'possum  story 
ez  I  knowed  would  tek  better. 

"  Then  I  whispered  in  Jube's  ear  the  plan 
I  hed  laid  out. 

"  Jest  afore  speakin'  time  I  onwropped  my 
fiddle  an'  twanged  a  string. 

" '  Give  us  a  tune,  Bob/  sung  out  Jube, 
'  ter  liven  us  up  a  bit  whilst  we're  waitin'.' 

"  I  tetched  the  bow  acrost  the  strings. 
'  Rabbit  in  the  Pea-Patch,' — the  boys  began 
ter  pat ;  soft  at  first,  then  a  bit  more  peart. 
Then  I  played  up — that  ole  Rabbit  went  a- 
skippin'  an'  a-trippin',  I  kin  tell  ye.  Far' 
well  ter  the  peas  in  that  patch.  How  the 
boots  did  strike  that  ole  puncheon  floor ! 
Jube  led.  I  could  hear  his  leather  'bove  all 
the  rest. 

"All  't  onc't  I  struck  inter  <  Rollin' 
River ' ;  fur  I  see  ole  Pettibrash  eyein'  uv 
me  through  the  winder.  Jube  see  it,  tocn — 
an'  sez  he — '  Plenty  o'  time,  boys,  fur 
speakin'.  Out  with  the  benches,  an'  let's 


fei*  Wmj  to  Jaw*.  65 

hev  a  dance.' — Out  they  went,  an'  the  gals 
an'  wimmen  folks  kem  in ;  an'  then  I  tuk 
the  teacher's  desk,  an'  put  my  fiddle  ter  my 
shoulder,  an'  sez  I,  ( Boys,  ef  ye'd  rether  hev 
cat-gut  music  ez  ter  hev  chin,  I'm  yer  man. 
But  I'll  jest  mek  all  the  speech  I've  got  ter 
mek  in  mighty  few  words.  It  air  this  :  I'm 
agin  the  Blair  Bill  an'  fur  the  fair  thing. 
Them's  my  sentiments  in  Congress  or  on  the 
mount'n.' 

"  Then  I  tetched  up  the  fiddle,  an'  give 
'em  '  Chicken  in  the  Bread  Tray,'  whilst  ole 
Pettibrash  war  left  ter  chaw  the  ragged  eend 
o'  disapp'intment.  It  war  midnight  when 
we  quit.  We  offered  ter  '  divide  time  '  about 
eleven  o'clock,  but  the  boys  war  in  fur  a 
frolic.  Waal,  we-uns  went  to  Congress,  me 
an'  the  fiddle.  An'  that  ole  fiddle  went 
long  o'  me  ter  all  the  speakiii's  afore  it  went 
ter  Congress,  an'  it  beat  ole  Pettibrash  all 
ter  hollow  fur  argumint.  '  Fiddled  his  way 
ter  Congress,'  the  papers  said,  an'  they 


66  JtMliwg  lite  m»  la 

didn't  miss  it  ez  fur  ez  I  Aev  knowed  'em  ter 
do. 

"  But  the  fiddle  war  not  done  yit.  The 
papers  talked  mightily  about  it,  an*  about 
me  l  fiddlin'  my  way  ter  fame '  an'  sech. 

"  One  day  a  question  kem  up  fur  the 
protection  uv  iron,  an'  I  voted  fur  it,  long 
with  the  Republicans.  Ye  see  I  war  a 
mount'n  boy ;  an'  them  ole  hills  o'  Ten- 
nessee, sech  ez  war  not  filled  with  marble, 
war  chuck  full  o'  iron  or  coal,  or  sech.  I 
war  boun'  ter  stan'  by  the  mount'n.  The 
papers  abused  me  mightily,  an'  'lowed  ez  I 
played  the  wrong  tune  that  time. 

"  That  night  I  had  a  diff'rint  surrenade, 
on  mighty  diff'rint  instrumints  from  the  ole 
Tennessee  brass  band.  They  war  tin  horns, 
an'  busted  buckets,  an'  cowbells ;  an'  ther' 
war  a  feller  ez  give  out  the  tunes,  an'  one 
war  this : — 

"  <  The  Whelp  o'  the  Wataugy,'  an'  the 
band  applauded  right  along. 


Jidfflfog  m  m*j  to  &me.  67 

"  The  next  war  : — 

" <  The  Fiddlin'  Mugwump,'  an'  the  band 
seconded  the  motion. 

"  '  The  Protection  'Possum  o'  the  Cumber- 
lands'  fetched  down  the  house. 

"  Then  some-un  called  fur  me,  an'  I  went 
out,  me  an'  the  fiddle.  An'  I  didn't  say  a 
word;  I  jist  tetched  the  bow  acrost  the 
strings,  an'  begin  ter  play, — 

'  Kerry  me  back, 
Kerry  me  back  ter  Tennessee ! ' 

"  Fur  a  minute  all  war  still  ez  the  dead. 
Then  some-un  shouted,  ( Go  it,  Bob ! '  An' 
the  whole  earth  fairly  shuk  with  the'r 
shoutin'. 

"  '  Fiddle  away,  ole  coon,'  they  hollered. 
"  Go  it,  my  whelp  ! ' — '  Hooray  fur  Ten- 
nessee ! ' 

v. 

"  The  next  mornin'  ther'  war  a  big  poplar 
coffin  settin'  on  the  steps  o'  my  bo'din'  house 
an'  a  big  fiddle  laid  'pon  top  o'  it,  an'  on  a 


68  JMAtittg  hte  m*j  to  Jaw*. 

white  card  war  painted  in  black  letters  :  '  Hang 
up  the  fiddle  an'  the  bow.'  An'  another 
card  said :  '  Kin  any  good  come  out  o' 
Nazareth  ? '  ineanin'  East  Tennessee. 

"  Then  the  mount'n  in  me  riz  big  ez  a 
mule.  An'  that  day  I  made  a  speech.  A 
speech  fur  Tennessee,  with  her  head  in  the 
clouds  an'  her  feet  in  the  big  Mississippi. 
I  spoke  fur  the  green  banks  uv  the  Wataugy 
an'  the  hills  that  lift  ther'  crested  tips  ter 
ketch  alike  the  kiss  uv  sunshine  an'  of 
cloud  —  Fur  Tennessee — the  little  strip 
God  breathed  upon  an'  Nature  kissed,  to 
set  it  all  a-bloomin'.  An'  I  'lowed  ez 
I  aimed  ter  stan'  by  her,  an'  by  her 
ole  iron-filled  hills  till  the  breath  lef 
my  body,  spite  o'  coffins  an'  fiddles,  cowbells 
an'  tin  horns.  '  An'  she'll  stan'  by  me,'  sez 
I,  <I  ben't  afeard  ter  risk  ole  Tennessee.' 
An'  I  give  the  word  ez  I'd  never  hang  up  the 
fiddle  till  East  Tennessee  ordered  it,  an'  ole 
Jube  Turner  signed  the  documint.  It  war 


JiMting  tti£  Wag  to  Jam*.  69 

all  in  the  papers  nex'  day  an'  I  jest  mailed 
'em  out  ter  Jube.  He  war  mightily  tickled, 
an'  the  boys  all  laffed  some  when  he  read  it 
out  ter  they-uns. 

"  I  made  one  more  race,  me  an'  the  fiddle, 
an'  hit  war  the  stormiest  race  I  ever  set  out 
fur.  I  hed  a  new  foe  ter  fight  this  time, 
one  ez  ole  Pettibrash  couldn't  tetch  with  a 
forty-foot  pole.  Hit  war  jist  my  own 
brother.  The  Republicans  put  him  out  to 
head  me  off,  thinkin'  ez  I  wuldn't  make  the 
race  ag'inst  my  own  brother.  I  war  with 
Jube  when  the  news  o'  the  nomernation 
kem.  An'  Jube  he  swore  an'  cussed  like  all 
possessed.  He  give  the  word  ez  I  hed  to 
make  the  race  fur  Gov'ner  o'  Tennessee 
ef  the  whole  fam'ly  kem  out  ez  candi- 
dates. 

"  I  went  home.  I  war  not  able  ter  face 
the  ole  man  an'  the  Republican  elemint  i'  the 
fam'ly ;  so  I  went  out  an'  sot  on  a  log  under 


70  Jidfllittg  hta  Wajj  to  Jaw*. 

the  apple  tree  an'  watched  the  sun  a-settin* 
behin'  Lynn  Mount'n.  So,  it  seemed  ter  me, 
my  sun  war  goin'  down  behin'  the  mount'n 
o'  helplessness — my  sun  o'  success. 

"  After  a  while  my  ole  mother  foun'  me 
out  an'  kem  down,  an'  I  told  her  ez  how  I 
war  hendered  by  my  brother  bein'  a  candidate. 
An'  she  heeard  me  out  an'  then — sez  she — 
an'  her  words  were  slow  an'  keerf  ul : — 

"  '  Ye  hev  the  right ;  Alfred  knowed  ez 
ye  aimed  ter  mek  the  race,  an'  he  hev  unly 
done  this  ter  hurt  the  Dimercrats.  Ye  hev 
the  right  ter  go  on  fur  yer  party,  the  same 
ez  Alfred  hev  fur  his.  Ye  hev  that  right.' 

"  Then  I  riz  up  an'  went  in.  An'  I  tuk 
down  the  old  fiddle,  an'  teched  it  gentle-like, 
an'  all  the  ole  times  kem  crowdin'  back.  I 
see  the  Hall  o'  Representatives.  An'  I 
heeard  the  clerk's  voice  callin'  uv  the  roll. 
An'  the  shouts  o'  the  boys  a-contendin*. 
Then  it  changed  an'  '  Hail  ter  the  Chief/ 
said  the  fiddle  in  my  ear,  unly  it  war  a  brass 


g  lug  Wmj  to  Jam?.  71 

band.  Then  the  tune  turned  agin,  an'  I 
heeard  the  cowbells  an'  the  tin  horns  an'  the 
hissin'  uv  the  people.  Then  it  began  to 
fade,  an'  then  it  wur  a  white-tail  rabbit 
skippin'  an'  skeedadlin'  through  a  turnip- 
patch  while  all  the  world  seemed  ter  beat  time 
to  the  tune  of  the  fiddle,  singin'  me  to  glory, 
an'  I  riz  up  an'  shuk  the  fiddle  in  the  face  o' 
the  whole  house,  an'  sez  I : — 

"'Yaas,  I'll  go.  I  will  go.  AU  hell 
can't  bender  me.' 

"  An'  I  went.  Me  an'  the  fiddle,  fur  it 
tuk  tall  playin'  ter  git  above  Alf,  ez  war  up 
ter  all  my  tricks. 

"  Nip  an'  tuck  we  run  together  on  the  first 
quarter,  together  on  the  second  ;  Alf  a  nose 
behin'  on  the  third,  an'  me  a  neck  ahead 
on  the  home-stretch,  me  an'  the  fiddle. 
'  Fiddled  himself  inter  the  Gov'ner's  cheer,' 
they  said ;  an'  ther'  war  some  toler'ble  tall 
fiddlin'  done  after  we  got  ther'. 

"  I  ain't  laid  her  by  yit,  my  ole  pardner. 


72 

Ther's  a  vacancy  ter  the  United  States 
Senate  jest  ahead,  an' — " 

There  was  a  shout  down  the  river :  the 
fisherman  had  returned.  The  governor  rose 
and  shook  himself. 

"  Ah,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  have 
fish  for  our  supper  after  all." 

Richard  was  himself  again. 

AUTHOR'S  NOTE — Since  this  story  appeared,  first 
in  the  "  Arena  "  magazine,  then  in  a  former  edition  of 
"  The  Heart  of  Old  Hickory,"  it  has  called  forth  much 
pleasant  speculation  regarding  the  honorable  gentleman 
suspected  of  being  the  hero  of  the  sketch.  The  author 
desires  to  state  that  the  story  was  not  designed  as 
history.  Further,  had  she  dreamed  for  one  moment 
that  it  would  have  met  with  the  generous  reception 
that  has  been  accorded  it,  she  would  have  been  careful 
to  make  this  statement  at  the  first.  It  is  chiefly  a  fancy 
sketch  with  some  of  the  characteristics  of  a  great  and 
good  man  to  rest  upon,  as  a  sort  of  framework  or 
foundation,  —  no  more,  nor  less.  W.  A.  D. 


A  WONDERFUL  EXPERIENCE 
MEETING. 


BEING  Christmas  time  the  brethren  thought 
it  not  amiss  that  something  extra,  in  the  way 
of  entertainment,  be  done  at  Nebo.  Many 
and  warm  were  the  discussions  before  they 
had  fairly  voted  down  the  cake-walking 
which  the  "young  folks  nomernated  f  ur," 
the  "  f  esterble  imposed  "  by  the  more  worldly 
among  the  older  members,  and  the  Christmas 
tree  espoused  by  those  who  were  in  the  habit 
of  carrying  down  presents  for  themselves  to 
be  "called  out,"  while  hungry-eyed  little 
"  niggers  "  by  the  score  watched  greedily  and 
waited  longingly,  to  be  rewarded  by  a  string 
of  burnt  popcorn  perhaps  at  the  last. 

These  being  severally  voted  upon  and  put 

73 


74         ^  WontUtfttt  Wxyevtem 

down  by  the  more  religious  element,  who  had 
taken  the  matter  in  hand,  an  experience  meet- 
ing was  finally  substituted  in  lieu  of  the 
worldly  amusements,  as  being  more  in  keep- 
ing with  the  sacred  occasion.  Once  decided 
upon,  all  went  to  work  alike  to  push  it  to 
success.  Even  yellow  "Kelline,"  the  belle, 
who  always  carried  off  the  prize  at  the  cake- 
walkings,  rallied  to  the  help  of  the  "  '  spe'ience 
meet'n'  "  determined  to  prove  to  the  brethren 
that  she  could  talk  as  well  as  walk. 

It  was  a  great  meeting,  a  never-to-be-for- 
gotten meeting,  held  Christmas  morning,  be- 
fore sun-up ;  for  there  were  the  Christmas 
breakfasts  "  to  be  got  fur  de  whi'  folks  "  at 
the  homes  where  many  of  the  early  worship- 
pers were  employed.  They  turned  out  in 
full  force :  Old  Aunt  Sally,  who  always 
nodded  during  the  collection  (wide-awake 
now)  ;  "  Little  Jinny,"  the  fashionable 
member  who  rivalled  "  Kelline "  in  popu- 
larity ;  Cross-eyed  Pete,  the  most  notorious 


Mxyetimtt  $U*tittg.         75 

thief  in  the  town,  the  most  vociferous  shouter 
in  the  church,  and  who  spent  at  least  one- 
fourth  of  his  time  in  the  county  jail ;  Old 
Jordan,  who  declared  he  had  served  his  time 
"  at  bein'  a  nigger,"  and  who  wanted  "  ter 
git  home  ter  heab'n  whar  dey's  all  whi'  folks 
dest  alike ; "  and  there  was  Shaky  Jake,  whose 
idea  of  heaven  was  one  of  golden  streets  and 
pearly  gates,  and  who  had  never  been  able  to 
reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  that  so  much 
"  gold  en  stuff  should  jes'  be  layin'  roun' 
loose  en  doin'  nuffin'."  There  was  "Slicky 
Dave "  the  barber,  who  looked  upon  the 
future  bliss  as  a  thing  of  shimmer  and  shine 
and  golden  crowns.  And  there  was  Uncle 
Mose,  who  had  "  raised  the  tunes  "  for  Nebo 
"  sence  tudder  Moses  lef  dar,"  he  was  wont 
to  declare  ;  and  who  expected  to  be  offered  a 
seat  in  the  choir  when  he  reached  "de 
prommus  Ian'  "  and  received  his  harp  and 
crown.  And  there  was  "Slow  Molly," 
whose  idea  of  heaven  consisted  of  dozing 


76         ^  Wfltttotful  t&xyttitmt 

under  a  plum  tree  and  waving  a  palm  branch. 
And  all,  from  baby  Jube  to  toothless  Jake, 
were  to  be  shod  in  golden  slippers.  Heaven 
without  those  golden  slippers — oh !  no ; 
there  is  no  such  heaven  possible  to  the  negro 
conception. 

The  morning  of  the  big  meet'n'  dawned 
cool  and  crisp,  with  a  sprinkle  of  white 
snow,  as  Christmas  morning  should  dawn, 
always.  "  Brudder  Bolles  "  went  to  work  in 
a  manner  that  showed  "  he  had  Chris'mus  in 
his  bones ;  "  brisk,  earnest,  hopeful.  After 
a  short,  fiery  prayer  he  arose,  and  caUed 
upon  the  members  to  speak,  "  to  testify 
accord'n'  ez  dey  wuz  moved  by  de  Sperit  ter 
so  do." 

Shaky  Jake  was  the  first  to  respond. 
"  Brudder  Bolles,"  said  he,  leaning  forward, 
a  hand  thrust  into  each  trousers  pocket,  his 
ragged  old  coat  a  speech  without  words  to 

OO  A 

proclaim  the  fact  that  Christmas  wasn't  all 
warmth  and  prosperity  despite  its  cheer.  But 


(&xyttit\m  Parting.         77 

old  Jake  was  there  to  testify,  not  to  complain. 
"  Brudder  Bolles,  I  hab  allus  heeard  say  dat 
Chris'mus  am  de  time  fur  'spe'ience — de  bes' 
time  ob  all  de  times.  Hit  am  de  time  when 
de  trees  bleeds,  en  de  cows  git  down  on  dey 
knees,  en  de  sperets  walks  de  yearth,  en  de 
chickins  en  de  birds  don'  go  ter  roost  et  all, 
but  jes'  keeps  watch  all  de  night  froo.  So  I 
hab  heeard ;  en,  Brudder  Bolles,  hit  sholy 
am  de  time.  Fur  las'  night  whilst  I  wuz 
layin'  awake,  thinkin'  'bout  Chris'mus,  en  de 
tukkeys,  en  de  shoat,  en  de  poun'  cake  what 
I  ud  lack  ter  lay  in  fur  de  ole  'oman  en  de 
chillen — fur  de  comfut  ob  my  fam'ly  en  de 
glory  ob  de  Lawd — whilst  I  lay  dar  dement'n' 
ob  de  hard  times,  en  de  col',  en  all,  I  went 
off  into  a  tranch. 

"  En  in  de  tranch  I  wuz  transfloated  up 
inter  de  heab'ns — jes'  lack  I  wuz,  in  my  ole 
close,  hongry  en  po'  en  bent  wid  de  mis'ry 
en  all.  En  when  I  got  dar,  in  my  ole  rags, 
I  jes'  stood  et  de  do',  'shame'  ter  go  in  whar 


78         ^  W0ttd*tfttl  Wxyttimtt 

dey  uz  all  dressed  up  in  dey  Sunday  close  en 
all.  Look  lack  dey  uz  habbin'  ob  a  picnic,  or 
else  dey  uz  allgwineon  a  'scussion  somewhars, 
dey  uz  all  so  fine,  en  hed  so  many  nice  fixin's. 
I  stood  dar  on  de  outside,  lookin'  on.  I  stood, 
en  stood  twell  I  couldn't  stan'  no  mo',  'count 
ob  de  col',  'ca'se  hit  uz  Chris'mus,  en  winter, 
en  all  dat.  I  wuz  jes'  about  ter  tu'n  'way  en 
g'long  back  home  whar  I  come  fum,  'ca'se 
I  knowed  I  ud  nuver  be  able  ter  keep  up 
wid  de  style  lack  dey  uz  all  containin'  ob  up 
dar,  when  de  front  do'  opened  en  Marse 
Jesus  Hisse'f  walked  out  on  de  front  peazzy. 
En  He  see  me  standin'  dar  in  de  col'  en  all, 
en  sez  He : — 

" '  What's  de  matter,  Unc'  Jake  ?  What 
am  de  incasion  ob  yo'  bad  f eelin's  ? ' 

"  Sez  I,  ( Marster,  de  ole  nigger's  mighty 
po'  en  all ;  en  he  ain't  got  no  close  fitten  ter 
soshate  wid  all  dem  in  dar  ! ' 

"  He  jes'  step  back  ter  de  do'  en  retch  his 
han'  fur  de  bell-han'le  en  when  de  do'  wuz 


WxyvAwct  |(Uetitt0.         79 

opened,  sez  he  ter  de  gyardeen  ob  it,  sez  He, 
'  Peter,  jes'  let  Unc'  Jake  step  inside  dar  a 
minit.'  En  I  stepped  in  long  o'  Him,  drap- 
pin'  my  ole  hat  on  de  do'  step,  en  shadin'  ob 
my  eyes  fum  de  glory — en  a-wait'n',  des'  a- 
wait'n'. 

"  Well,  brudderin,  He  jes'  glanced  down 
et  dem  golden  streets  en  den  up  et  my  ole 
rags,  en  sez  He,  'Unc'  Jake,  jes'  rip  up  one 
ob  de  bricks  out'n  dat  pavemint  en  go  buy 
yo'se'f  some  close  ;  den  come  up  dem  golden 
sta'rs  yon'er  ter  de  ballroom.  Buy  yo'se'f 
de  wedd'n'  gyarmint,  fur  de  bridegroom  sholy 
gwine  'spect  yer  ter  dance  et  de  infair  ter- 
night.  En,'  sez  He,  '  don't  hab  no  termod'ty 
'bout  spendin'  ob  de  brick,  hit's  yo'en,  en 
dey's  plenty  mo'  here,  des'  a-doin'  nuffin'. 
Spen'  it  all ;  en'  what's  lef '  go  buy  yo'se'f 
some  oyschers  wid  hit.' 

"  An,  den  I  woked  up  out'n  de  tranch. 
En  hit  uz  col',  en  de  chillen  uz  hongry,  en 
de  breakfus'  some  skimp.  But  I'se  here  ter 


80         ^  Sltfottdetfttl  (&xytvmst 

testerfy  et  dat  ain't  henderin'  o'  me  none. 
Hit's  warm  in  heab'n  whar  dey's  all  habbin' 
ob  dey  Chris'mus  ter-day ;  Chris'mus,  en 
oyschers,  en  tukkey,  en  all.  I'll  git  dar 
bimeby,  en  de  pavemints  ullkeep,  'ca'se  dey's 
gol',  en  dey  ain't  no  thief,  en  no  mof,  en  no 
rus'  fur  ter  cranker  ob  'em.  So  sez  I,  bress 
de  Lawd  !  I  kin  wait  fur  de  Chris'mus  ober 
yon'er." 

Excitable  "  Little  Jinny  "  sprang  to  her 
feet  before  old  Jake  had  fairly  taken  his  seat. 
"  Brudder  Bolles,"  she  sang  out  in  her  clear, 
flat  treble,  "  I  rises  ter  gib  my  intestermint 
ter  dis  meet'n'.  I  wuz  a  sinner — a  po',  los' 
sinner,  keerin'  fur  nuffin'  but  fine  close  en 
sech,  twell  I  went  off  inter  de  tranch,  lack  de 
brudder  what  jes'  spoke.  En  while  I  wuz  in 
de  tranch  Marse  Jesus  He  cum  k-ridin'  by 
in  His  cha'iot  o'  fire,  wid  His  swode  buckl't 
on,  en  His  crown  on  His  haid.  En  I  crope 
out'n  de  paf,  'ca'se  I's  feard  He  ud  jes'  ride 
me  down  inter  de  dus',  I  uz  sech  a  sinner. 

n 


g.         81 

But  He  see  me  ;  He  see  me,  en  He  call  out 
ter  me,  '  Aw,  Jinny,'  sez  He,  '  Jinny  ! '  En 
sez  I,  '  Yes,  my  Lawd.'  Sez  He,  '  Does  yer 
know  whar  yer  stan's  ? '  Sez  I,  '  Yes,  my 
Lawd;  I's  hangin'  ober  hell  by  de  ha'r  ob 
my  haid ;  ober  de  burnin'  pit.'  En  sez  He, 
'  Go,  en  sin  no  mo',  go  back  ter  Nebo,  en  tell 
all  de  brudderin  I's  redeemed  yer.'  S'  I, 
'  Yes,  my  Lawd  !  bress  de  Lawd,  oh  my 
soul!'" 

Yellow  Kelline  was  not  to  be  outdone  by 
tbe  startling  experience  of  "  Little  Jinny." 
She  rose  at  once,  a  slight,  nervous  mulatto 
girl,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  the 
graceful  body  in  a  nimble  swing  that  kept 
time  to  the  tune  she  unconsciously  set  to  her 
words. 

"  Brudderin,  I  wuz  layin'  on  my  baid  in 
de  cool  ob  de  mawnin',  when  I  see  Marse 
Jesus  come  ridin'  by  on  a  milk-white  horse. 
S'  e,  'How  you  do,  Sist'  Kelline?'  S'  I, 
*  I's  toler'ble,  thank  de  Lawd.  How  is  you, 


82        ^  WM&ertvH  fatynteMt  Petting. 

Master  ?  '  S'  e,  <  I's  toler'ble ;  is  de  folks  aU 
well?'  S'  I,  'Dey's  toler'ble.  You's  aU 
well,  Marster?'  S'  e,  <  We's  toler'ble.' 
Den  He  lean  down  f  um  de  saddle,  en  s'  e  : — 

"  *  Whar  you  been,  Sist'  Kelline, 
Dat  you  been  gone  so  long  ? ' 
«S'I:— 

"  '  Been  a-rollin'  en  a  prayin'  et  Jesus'  feet, 

En  my  soul's  gwine  home  ter  glory.' 
«  S'  e :— 

" '  Keep  a-rollin'  en  a-prayin'  et  Jesus'  feet, 
Rollin'  en  prayin'  et  Jesus'  feet, 
Rollin'  en  prayin'  et  Jesus'  feet, 
My  soul's  gwine  home  ter  glory.' " 

Slowly,  from  his  seat  in  the  Amen  Corner, 
rose  Cross-eyed  Pete.  The  sceptic  might 
intimate  that  it  was  the  song  of  Kelline  that 
suggested  the  thread  of  old  Pete's  experience. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  he  was  none  the  less 
earnest  hi  adding  his  testimony.  Said  he, 
his  black  face  aglow :  — 

"  Brudderin,  I  dreampt  I  wuz  daid,  an'  et 
I  went  ter  de  do'  o'  heab'n.  I  went  straight 
up  ter  de  front  do',  'ca'se  de  righteous  am 


83 

bol'  ez  a  lion,  en  I  wa'n't  'feard  oj  nuffin'. 
En  dey  ain't  no  sher'ff  up  dar  ter  haul  a 
nigger  off  ter  jail  fur  nuffin',  neider.  En 
when  I  got  ter  de  do'  I  knocked;  en  Marse 
Jesus  He  come  ter  de  do'  His  own  se'f,  en 
sez  He,  '  How  you  do,  Unc'  Peter  ? '  En  I 
tol'  Him  I  uz  des'  toler'ble,  en  He  sont  me 
roun'  ter  de  kitchin  fur  ter  git  wa'm.  En 
dar  wuz  ole  Mis'  Jesus  dar,  'en  she  gimme 
a  cup  o'  wa'm  coffee,  en  made  me  set  down 
ter  de  side  table  en  sot  out  a  pone  o'  co'n 
bread,  en  de  hock  bone  o'  de  ham  what  dey  all 
hab  fur  de  Chris'mus  dinner,  en  de  backbone 
o'  de  Chris'mus  tukkey,  'stid  o'  sabin'  ob  it 
fur  hash  fur  breakfus'.  Den  she  ax  me  all 
'bout  my  troubles  en  all,  en  den  sez  she : — 

" '  Whar's  you  been,  Unc'  Peter, 
Dat  you  been  gone  so  long  ? ' 

«  S'  I :— 

" '  Been  a-layin'  in  de  jail, 
WaitV  fur  ray  bail, 
En  my  soul's  gwine  home  ter  glory.' " 


84         ^  Wotttortul  (ftxyvAmtt 

Old  Jordan,  fervent  if  rheumaticky,  arose  : 
"  Brudderin  en  sisters !  I  fetches  good 
tidin's,  i  good  tidin's  ob  gre't  joy  which  shall 
be  ter  all  people.'  De  book  sez  '  de  ole  men 
shall  see  vishuns.'  I  hab  seed  one.  In  a 
deep  sleep,  lack  de  same  ez  fell  on  Brudder 
Noey,  I  wuz  cyar'd  in  a  tranch  up  ter  heab'n. 
When  I  sot  my  foot  in  de  New  Jerusalam 
my  ole  shoes  tu'n  ter  gol'n  slippers,  en  my 
ole  close  ter  a  white  robe.  My  ole  ha'r  wuz 
a  crown  ob  gol'.  En  de  anjuls  dey  met  me 
et  de  gate ;  en  dey  formed  deyse'ves  inter 
two  lines,  wid  a  paf  down  de  middle  fum-me 
ter  trabul.  En  dey  all  lif  up  de  harps  dey 
uz  houldin'  wid  one  han',  en  de  pa'm  branch 
dey  uz  hould'n'  wid  tudder.  En  dey  waved 
de  pa'ms  en  strike  de  harps  wid  bof  han's  ; 
en  dey  shout,  '  How  you  do,  Brudder 
Jordan  ?  '  Not  Unc'  Jordan — naw,  sah ;  dey 
ain't  no  Unclin*  up  dar.  En  dey  say, l  Wel- 
come home,  Brudder  Jordan  ;  come  en  git 
yer  harp.' 


85 

"  But  I  sez  ter  de  anjuls,  '  Stan'  out  de 
way  dar,  chillun  ;  lemme  git  ter  de  King.' 
En  I  elbowed  myse'f  up  ter  whar  He  uz 
sett'n'  on  de  throne  jest  lookin'  on  et  de 
glory.  En  He  see  me,  en  He  riz  up  an  belt 
out  His  ban',  en  sez  He,  t  How  you  do, 
Brudder  Jordan  ?  '  same  ez  de  anjuls.  En 
wben  He  done  sey  dat  He  moved  ter  one 
side  ter  make  room  fur  me,  en  sez  He,  t  Hab 
a  seat  on  de  throne,  Brudder  Jordan,  en  res' 
yose'f  wbil'st  yo'  room's  afixin'  fur  yer.' 
I  wuz  sorter  s'prised  some  et  dat  sho,  en  sez 
I,  '  I's  jest  a  nigger,  sah,  down  yander  wbar 
I  come  fum.'  l  Heish  chile  ! '  sez  He,  '  dey 
ain't  no  such  word  ez  dat  up  here.'  Den  sez 
I,  Marster,  ef  it  am  true  lack  yer  sey,  dat  de 
niggers  am  all  tu'n  white  up  here,  den  what's 
de  meanin'  ob  all  dem  colored  gen'lemen 
stan'in'  roun'  here  ?  '  Sez  He,  '  Dey's  de 
whi'  folks  what  useter  wuz.'  Den  I  wuz 
sholy  ustonished,  en  sez  I,  l  Brudder,  I  ain't 
nebber  heeard  'bout  dat ;  I  'lowed  we  wuz 


86 

all  des  plain  white  erlack.'  Sez  he,  '  Umk- 
hmk  !  don'  yer  b'lieve  it,  honey ;  dey  swops — 
dey  des'  swops  places.  See  dat  lean-looking 
nigger  ober  yonder  by  de  fi' place  putt'n'  on 
a  stick  o'  wood  ?  Well,  dat's  yo  ole  marster 
what  useter  wuz.  He's  gwine  put  on  'is 
ap'n  an  wait  on  you-alls,  soon's  de  bell  rings 
fur  dinner.'  Den  sez  I,  (  Lawd,  now  let  dy 
serbent  depart  in  peace,  fur  my  eyes  hab  seen 
de  glory.' ' 

Mose,  the  leader  in  song,  was  the  next  to 
take  the  witness  stand.  Mose  made  some 
pretensions  to  learning ;  he  had  a  son  who 
could  read,  and  a  grandson  who  was  a 
"  school-scholar "  in  the  public  schools. 
Mose  had  acquired  oratory,  if  not  English. 

"  Bredderin,"  he  began,  "  I  wuz  imported, 
in  a  tranch,  ter  de  heabenly  Jerusalam.  My 
gre't  desire  insistin'  ob  a  wush  ter  view  de 
glories  ob  de  city,  whenst  de  informalerties 
wuz  ober  I  set  myse'f  ter  de  juty  ob  so  doin'. 
It  wus  suttinly  a  most  insignifercant  city  ter 


t&xyttimt  p^tittg.          87 

look  upon.  But  dat  which  repealed  ter  me 
de  moest  wuz  de  onpartialness  ob  it  all.  Dey 
wa'n't  no  upsta'rs  en  parlors  fur  de  whi' 
man,  wid  basemints  en  kitchins  fur  de  colored 
gent'  min  in  dat  insignificant  house  ob  many 
manshens.  All  uz  des'  de  same ;  one  didn't 
make  no  mo'  intentions  den  de  tudder.  De 
basemints  uz  all  parlors,  en  de  parlors  uz  all 
basemints  ;  en  dar  resisted  a  strong  fambly 
likeness  betwixt  all  o'  de  inhabiters  ob  de 
place — a  mos'  strikin'  insemblance. 

"  De  wood  pile  hit  lay  et  de  front  do',  free 
ter  der  nigger  en  de  white  dest  erlack. 
En  de  nigger  wuz  called  ter  de  fus'  table, 
same's  as  de  res'.  En  de  hin  'ouse  wuz 
ez  much  for  de  nigger  ez  de  white  man. 
No  mo'  crop'n'  roun*  ter  de  back  alley 
fur  ter  slip  a  chickin  off'n  de  roos',  'ca'se 
de  white  man  got  too  many  fur  his  Chris'- 
mus  dinner,  en  de  nigger  got  none.  Umk- 
hmk !  AU  dem  hins,  en  puUets,  en 
roosters,  en  fryin'-sizers.  All  you  got  ter 


&  Wotttotfut  Mxyttimt 

do,  jes'  lif'  yer  ban'  en  yope  'em  off'n  de 
roos'  same's  ef  yur  put  em  dar.  Umk-hmk ! 
En  de  horgs  en  de  young  shoats  des  de  same. 
Umk-hmk !  Stan'  out  the  way  dar,  chillun ! 
Dis  worl's  mighty  weery.  But  dar's  Chris'- 
mus  ober  yonder;  chickin  fixin's  fur  de 
nigger.  No  mo'  hin  roos'es  all  dest  for  the 
white  man.  Dat's  all  I  want  know  'bout 
heab'n'.  Umk-bmk  !  my  soul's  happy,  en  I 
want  to  go  home." 

And  while  the  Christmas  bells  rang  out 
their  "good  tidings,"  who  shall  say  that  the 
dusky  worshippers,  interpreting  according 
to  their  light,  had  not  experienced  a  foretaste 
of  the  "  great  joy  "  promised  to  all  men  ? 


WHO  BROKE  UP  DE  MEET'N'? 


AUNT  SYLVIA  told  the  story,  as  she  sat  on 
the  doorstep  one  soft  afternoon  in  June. 
She  had  come  to  return  the  "  cup  o'  corn 
meal "  she  had  borrowed  a  few  days  before  ; 
and  while  resting  a  moment,  she  related  the 
story  of  the  "  scan'l "  that  had  "  broke  up 
de  meet'n',  de  big  meet'n'  ober  at  the  Pisgy 
meet'n'  house,  an'  tuk  Brudder  Simmons 
inter  the  cote,  an'  plumb  made  dey  all  f urgit 
all  about  the  feet-washin'  what  dey  allus 
winds  up  de  big  meet'n'  wid,  ever'  onct  a 
year." 

"  A  '  feet-washing'  ?  What  is  a  feet-wash- 
ing, Aunt  Sylvia  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  De  Lor',  honey,  don't  you  know  ?     But 

den  I  furgit  you's  a  Meferdis',  en  de  feet- 

89 


90  TO0  §r0fce  mp  fit 

washin's  am  Babtis'.  De  Meferdis',  dey 
hab  de  fallin'  fum  graces  instid.  Well, 
honey,  it's  dis  er  way.  De  sacerment,  hit's 
fur  the  cleanin'  ob  de  soul ;  de  f eet-washin', 
Jbit's  for  de  cleanin'  ob  de  body" 

"  Ah  !  I  see.  And  did  the  '  feet-wash- 
ing' break  up  the  meeting  ?  "  I  asked,  some- 
what startled  at  this  unusual  interpretation 
of  the  Scriptures.  She  laughed ;  her  fat, 
black  face  dropped  forward,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  body  swinging  in  that  odd  way  which 
belongs  solely  to  her  race. 

"  De  f  eet-washin'  break  up  de  meet'n'  ? 
Naw,  honey,  dat  it  didn't,  dat  it  didn't." 

"  Then  what  did  ?  " 

"  Dat's  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  dat's  dest 
it.  Dat's  dest  what  we-all  wants  to  know. 
Dat's  what  de  cote  wanted  ter  know;  who 
broke  up  de  meet'n'  ?  Some  sey  hit  uz 
Brer  Ben  Lytle ;  en  some  sey  hit  uz  Brer  Ike 
Martin ;  en  some  sey  hit  uz  de  widder  Em'line 
Spurlock  ;  en  some  sey  hit  uz  jes'  Ike's  fise 


Who  grofeje  %  At  $«wtV  ?  91 

dorg ;  en  den  ag'in  some  sey  hit  uz  de  sing- 
in'  ;  some  sey  de  preacher  hisse'f  done  hit ;  en 
some  sey  dis,  en  some  sey  dat,  till  dey  fetches 
it  ter  de  cote.  En  de  cote  figgered  en  fig- 
gered  on  it,  en  den  it  sey  cord'n  ter  de  bes' 
hit  kin  ex'trac'  fum  de  eminence  befo'  it,  wuz, 
dat  de  one  ez  broke  up  de  meet'n',  en  oughter 
be  persecuted  en  incited  by  de  gran'  jury 
fur  de  disturbmint  ob  de  public  worshup,  am 
ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur's  big  domernicker 
rooster,  what  nobody  ain't  never  s'picioned, 
case'n  o'  hit  livin'  'way  'cross  de  creek,  on 
de  side  todes  de  railroad,  wid  ole  Mis'  Good- 
paschur.  En  de  cote,  hit  noller  prostituted 
de  case  agin  de  preacher,  what  de  sisters  in- 
ferred aginst  him  in  dey  charges ;  en  dey  tuk 
en  laid  hit  on  de  domernicker  instid. 

"  Hit  uz  dis  erway :  You  see,  Ike  Martin, 
he  wuz  'gaged  ter  chop  wood  fur  Mis'  Good- 
paschur,  'count  o'  lett'n'  uv  him  haul  off'n 
her  Ian'.  Ike,  he  gits  a  load  fur  ever'  load 
he  cuts.  En  hit  'pears  in  de  eminence  how 


92 

Ike  went  by  ter  cut  some  wood  mighty  early 
in  de  mawnin',  de  day  ob  de  feet-washin', 
'count  o'  goin'  ter  meet'n'.  En  he  fetched 
little  Eli,  his  boy,  'long  wid  'im  ter  pick  up 
de  chips,  case'n  Mis'  Goodpaschur  allus  gibs 
de  chile  a  bite  o'  warm  bre'kfus'  when  he 
pick  up  de  chips  fur  her,  seein'  ez  Ike  aint 
got  no  wife  ter  cook  fur  him.  En  Eli  he 
fetched  his  fise  dog — thinkin'  'bout  de 
bre'kfus',  I  reckin.  En  Mis'  Goodpaschur, 
she  axed  Eli  ter  keep  off  de  calf  off.  En 
while  EH,  he  uz  wraslin'  wid  de  calf,  en  no- 
body ain'  never  thought  ob  de  domernicker 
up  in  de  yaller  peach  tree,  all  't  onct  dar 
wuz  a  mighty  fluster  up  ober  dey  haids,  en 
de  big  domernick  come  teetlin'  en  clawin' 
down  on  ter  de  roof  ob  de  cow-shed  wid  a 
pow'ful  healfy  '  How-dy-do-oo-hoo ! ' 

"  Ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur,  she  uz  dat  upsot 
she  tumbled  off'n  de  milkin'  stool,  forrards 
agin'  de  cow ;  en  de  cow,  she  kicked  little 
Eli  in  de  haid,  en  Eli,  he  hollered  till  his 


tv  ?        93 

daddy  come  ter  see  de  incasion  ob  de  fuss. 
En  he  tell  Eli  ter  shet  up;  but  he  say  he 
ain'  gwine  shet  up  tell  he  kill  dat  cow ;  he 
say  he  '  boun'  ter  bus'  it  wide  op'n.' 

"En  den  Mis'  Goodpaschur.  she  say  she 
sholy  have  him  tuk  up  en  jailed  ef  he  tetch 
dat  ar  cow.  En  so  Ike  he  tuk  en  tuk  Eli  off 
ter  de  feet-washin'  fur  ter  keep  'im  out  o' 
mischeef. 

"En  de  fise  dog,  hit  went  'long  too  wid 
Eli,  'cause  dat  dog  sho'  gwine  whar  Eli  go. 
En  dat's  jes'  how  it  all  come  'bout ;  ef  dey 
all  hadn't  come  ter  meet'n',  ober  ter  Pisgy, 
dey  ain'  been  no  fuss,  en  no  scan'l,  en  no 
talk. 

"  De  domernick  skeered  ole  Mis',  ole  Mis* 
skeered  de  cow,  de  cow  kicked  Eli,  Eli  hol- 
lered fur  his  daddy,  his  daddy  tuk  him  ter 
de  meet'n' !  en  dar  wuz  de  fuss  all  wait'n* 
en  raidy. 

"  'Twuz  de  big  meet'n',  hit  ez  don't  come 
'cep'  onct  a  year.  Brudder  Simmons  wuz 


94  TO0     *0fe*         At 


holdin'  fo'th,  en  jes'  a-spasticerlatin'  ter  de 
sinners  en  denunciatV  ob  de  Scriptures.  En 
he  wuz  jes'  p'intedly  gibbin'  de  gospil,  bilin' 
hot,  ter  de  gals  en  boys,  de  ongodly  young 
folks  ez  wuz  at  de  dancin'  party  down  ter 
Owlsley's  Holler  de  night  befo'. 

"  Dey  uz  all  dar,  gigglin'  en  actin'  mighty 
bad.  En  de  preacher,  he  telled  how  he  rid 
froo  de  Holler  goin'  ter  Brudder  Job  Saw- 
yer's house  fur  ter  put  up,  en  he  heeard  de 
tompin'  en  de  singin',  en  he  telled  'em  how 
bad  it  all  sound.  He  sey,  dey  uz  singin' 
somef  'n'  bout  "  Granny,  ull  yo  dog  bite  ?  " 
En  he  mek  de  p'int  ter  tell  'em  uv  dat  ez'll 
bite  more  badder  en  any  dog  —  it  air  de  wraf  ! 
de  wraf  ter  come  !  de  fire  dat'll  burn,  en 
burn,  en  neber  stop  burnin'. 

"En  the  Chrischuns,  dey  wuz  seyin' 
6  Amen  !  '  en  dest  waitin'  wid  dey  mouf  wide 
op'n  fur  de  trumpit  ter  blow  fur  ter  start 
'em  all  home  todes  de  glory.  En  dar  wuz 
de  sinner  convicted,  moanin',  wait'n  fur  de 


At  p**tV  ?  95 

call  ter  resh  ter  de  moaners'  bench.  En  dar 
wuz  de  dancin'  crown,  col',  col',  col'  ez  ice,  and 
not  thinkin'  ob  de  jedgmint  day.  Yes,  dey 
wuz  all  dar — de  worl',  de  flesh,  en  de  deb- 
bul,  I  reckin. 

"  En  dar  wuz  de  moaners'  bench — fur  de 
feet-washing  hit  come  las' — en  de  moaners' 
bench  wuz  dar,  stretched  plumb  'crost  de 
house,  wid  some  clean  straw  throwed  roun* 
bout'n  it  fur  de  consolerdation  ob  dem  ez 
wuz  come  ter  wras'le  like  Marse  Jacob. 

"  En  Ike,  he  uz  dar,  en  Eli  uz  dar,  en — 
de  fise  dog  uz  dar.  Yes,  de  fise  uz  behavin* 
mighty  well ;  a  pow'f ul  f  rien'ly,  onhankerous 
lookin'  little  critter,  curled  up  on  de  fur  eend 
ob  de  moaners'  bench  jes'  in  front  ob  Eli, 
en  not  seyin'  a  blessed  word  ter  'sturb  no- 
body. En  de  widder  Spurlock,  she  uz  dar, 
in  her  new  moanin'  dress  en  a  raid  ribben  in 
her  bonnit.  She  done  been  sett'n'  up  ter 
Ike  eber  sence  his  'oman  died ;  en  Eh",  he  jes' 
p'intedly  despises  de  groun'  she  tromps  on. 


96  TO*  grate  mp  At 

"  Waal,  den,  when  Brudder  Simmons,  he 
begin  ter  exterminate  de  Chrischuns  ter  go 
out  inter  de  byways  en  de  hedgerows,  en  ter 
furrit  out  de  sinners  en  impel  'em  ter  come 
inter  de  gospul  feast,  ever'body  knowed  he 
uz  talkin'  'bout  de  boys  en  gals  what  danced 
'  Granny,  ull  yo  dog  bite '  all  de  night  befo'. 
Ever'body  knowed  dat,  inspectin'  ob  de  wid- 
der  Spurlock ;  she  plumb  mistuk  de  meanin' 
ob  de  call.  Fur  'bout  dat  time,  some  ob  de 
wraslin'  ones  down  't  de  fur  eend  ob  de 
moaners'  bench  fum  der  fise,  foun'  grace,  en 
begin  ter  claw  de  a'r,  en  ter  roll  in  de  straw 
like. 

"  De  fise  he  looked  up,  much  ez  ter  sey, 
' What  dat  mean?' 

"  En  den  Mis'  Spurlock,  she  jumped  up, 
flung  off  her  bonnit,  en  wen'  tarin'  cross  de 
house  ter  whar  Ike  wuz  sett'n'  by  Eli  on  de 
bench. 

"  Down  she  flopped,  en  flung  hersef  onter 
Ike's  shoulder  en  begin  ter  holler,  (  Glory  ! 


?  97 

glory !  Bress  de  Lord !  I  loves  ever'body, 

ever'body,  ever9 body  ! '  en  jes'  poundin' 

Ike  on  de  back  lack  same's  he  uz  a  peller, 
else  a  bolster  she  uz  beat'n'  up. 

"  De  fise  dog  riz  ter  a  sett'n'  poscher, 
sett'n'  on  de  bin'  laigs,  his  tail  sorter  oneasy 
like,  en  his  mouf  workin'. 

"  Den  I  see  Eli  lean  ober  en  put  his  mouf 
ter  de  fise's  year,  'en  sey,  sorter  easy  like, 
sez  he,  '  S-i-c-k  'im  I '  Land  o'  Moses  !  ef 
dat  dog  didn't  fa'rly  fly.  He  danced,  en  he 
yelped,  en  he  barked,  en  he  barked.  He  lit 
inter  dat  widder-'oman  like  a  mad  hornet.  I 
tell  yer,  he  made  de  fur  fly.  En  den  dat 
Eli,  he  jes'  titled  ob  his  haid  back  en  laffed 
out  loud. 

"  De  gals  f um  Owlsley's  Holler  giggled,  en 
de  moaners  peeped  fum  behin'  dey's  han'- 
kercheef  s  ter  see  what  uz  de  matter  ;  en  eben 
one  ob  de  preachers  hisse'f  smiled,  while  Brer 
Ben  Lytle,  ez  wuz  kerzort'n'  ob  de  moaners, 
he  jes'  drapped  down  in  de  straw  en  roared 


98         m*  ittrft*  mp  fa 

till  he  had  ter  hoi'  his  sides,  fur  ter  keep  f  urn 
bust'n'  wide  op'n.  Yer  could  a  heeard  him 
haff'n  a  mile,  I  reckin. 

"  Dar  wuz  one  didn't  laff ;  dat  uz  Brer 
Simmons.  He  jumped  up  quick  ez  he  could, 
en  sez  he  : — 

"  (  Sing  somethin' ; '  thinkin'  ter  drown  out 
the  fuss.  '  Sing,  bredderin  !  Sing  dat  good 
ole  song,  "  Granny,  will  yo'  dog  bite." 

"  En  afore  he  could  see  what  he  had  sed, 
dem  Owlsley  Holler  gals  set  up  ter  singin', 
loud  nuff  ter  raise  de  daid,  while  de  boys, 
dey  begin  ter  pat : — 

Chippie  on  de  railroad, 

Chippie  on  de  flo', 
Granny,  will  yo'  dog  bite  ? 

JVb,  chile,  no  f 

"Brudder  Simmons'  eyes  look  lack  dey 
boun'  ter  pop  out'n  his  haid  ;  he  lif '  up  his 
han'  up,  so,  en  motion  'em  ter  stop.  But  dat 
only  mek  dey- all  ter  sing  de  more  louder,  en 
ter  pat  the  more  harder  : — 


f  flfee  mp  At  $totW  ?  99 


'Possum  up  a  'sirnmon  tree, 

Oh,  my  Joe  ! 
Granny,  will  yo'  dog  bite  ? 

JVo,  chile,  no! 

"  Den  de  Chrischuns,  dey  got  mad.  Dey 
'low  Brudder  Simmons  been  et  de  dance  his 
own  se'f,  else  dat  song  wouldn't  slip  off'n  his 
mouf  so  'ily.  Dey  wuz  plumb  scan'lized. 
Dey  wuz,  shore.  En  someun  sey,  out 
loud  :  — 

"  '  Put  'im  out  !  Put  'im  out  !  '  En  de 
word  uz  tuk  up  by  de  whole  band  o'  Chris- 
chuns, exclud'n'  de  very  moaners  deyse'ves. 
En  afore  he  knowed  it  dey  jes'  lit  inter  'im, 
drug  him  out'n  de  pulpit,  en  pitched  him  out'n 
de  meet'n  house  door,  en  shet  it  to,  in  his  face, 
namin'  ob  him  ah1  de  time  fur  a  Jonah.  En 
den  dey  fetched  it  up  in  de  cote,  persecuted 
ob  de  preacher  fur  disturbin'  ob  public  wor- 
ship. Dey  sho'  did. 

"  En  when  dey  fetched  it  up,  de  preacher 
sey  he  ain'  done  hit.  Den  de  cote  p'intedly 


100  ma  ircifce  mp  At 

ax,  <  TFfto  bruk  up  de  meet'n'  ?  '  En  some 
sey  clis  un,  en  some  sey  dat,  en  dey  all  sey  dey 
reckin  de  preacher  wuz  de  mos'  ter  blame — 
de  witnesses  all  sey  dat. 

"  But  Brudder  Simmons,  he  sey  he  didn' 
mean  ter  gib  out  dat  song.  He  uz  dest  a- 
thinkin'  about  dat  wicked  dance  dey-all  ben 
habin'  in  de  Holler,  en  he  uz  frustrated  by 
de  fise  dog  barkin',  en  when  he  went  ter  sey 
1  Sing  dat  good  ole  song,  "  Gre't  God,  dat 
awful  day  ob  wraf," '  he  furgot,  en  sed, 
"  Granny,  will  yo'  dog  bite,"  bein'  frustrated 
'bout  de  fise  en  de  dance. 

"  So  den  de  cote  axed  him,  '  Who  bruk 
up  de  meet'n'  ? '  En  he  sey  ef  he  bleeged  ter 
lay  de  blame  he  ud  lay  it  ter  de  dog.  He  sey 
de  fise  dog  bruk  up  de  meet'n'.  Den  I  gibs 
my  intestiment,  en  I  sey  it  wuzn't  de  dog,  it 
uz  Eli  fur  sickin'  on  de  dog,  'case  I  heeard 
'im.  En  Eli  he  sey  it  uz  de  widder  Em'line 
Spurlock  fur  huggin'  ob  his  pappy.  En  de 
widder  sey  it  uz  Ike  fur  f  etchin'  Eli  ter  meet'n'. 


p  At  p*e*V  ?  101 

En  Ike  sey  it  uz  ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur  fur 
tryin'  ter  jail  Eli,  else  he  wouldn't  a-fotched 
de  chile  ter  meet'n'. 

"  Mis'  Goodpaschur  sey  it  uz  Eli,  fur  sayin' 
he  'u'd  kill  de  cow. 

"  En  Eli,  he  sey  de  cow  uz  ter  blame  fur 
kickin'  uv  'im,  en  ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur  fur 
kickin'  ob  de  cow. 

"En  den  ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur,  she  sey 
'twuz  de  domernicker  crowed  on  de  roof  ez 
skeered  her  offn  de  stool  en  made  her  bump 
ag'inst  de  cow. 

"  Now,  den !  de  cote  hit  sey  de  eminence 
am  all  in,  en  it  begin  ter  argerfy  de  case. 
En  it  argerfied  might'ly  ;  do  de  lawyers  kep' 
a-laffin'  en  laffin',  tell  de  judge  shuck  a  stick 
at  'em  ;  en  he  hit  on  de  pulpit  ob  de  cote- 
room  wid  it,  en  looked  mighty  ser'us,  when 
his  mushtash  didn't  shake,  lack  it  sorter 
done. 

"  En  one  ob  de  lawyers  riz  up  en  made  out 
de  case: — 


102  TO0 

"  (  De  rooster  crowed  !  ole  mis'  jumped 
ag'in'  de  cow ;  de  cow  kicked  Eli ;  Eli  want 
ter  kill  de  cow  ;  ole  mis'  want  ter  jail  Eli ; 
Ike  fetched  him  ter  meet'n',  wid  de  dog ;  de 
widder  hugged  Ike  ;  de  dog  bit  de  widder  j 
de  gals  laffed ;  de  preacher  gin  out  de  wrong 
chune ;  de  sisters  fit  de  preacher,  en  de  meet'n' 
bruk  up.  En  now/  sez  he,  l  who  bruk  up  de 
meet'n'  ? ' 

"  Den  de  judge  riz  up,  en  sez  he,  '  Ef  de 
preacher  hadn't  gib  out  de  wrong  chune  de 
gals  wouldn't  a-sung  it. 

" f  De  preacher  wouldn't  done  it  ef  de  dog 
hadn't  barked. 

" '  De  dog  wouldn't  barked  ef  Eli  hadn't 
sicked  'im  on. 

" ( Eli  wouldn't  set  'im  on  ef  de  widder 
hadn't  hugged  his  daddy. 

" '  De  widder  wouldn't  done  dat  ef  he  ud 
stayed  et  home  wid  Eli. 

"  « Ef  he'd  stayed  home  wid  Eli,  ole  Mis' 
Goodpaschur  ud  put  Eli  in  jail. 


p  At  $totV  ?  103 

"  '  Ole  Mis'  Goodpaschur  wouldn't  do  dat 
ef  he  hadn't  sey  he  ud  kill  de  cow. 

" '  He  wouldn't  sey  dat  ef  de  cow  hadn't 
kicked  'im. 

" '  De  cow  wouldn't  kicked  'im  ef  ole  mis 
hadn't  kicked  de  cow. 

" (  Ole  mis'  wouldn't  done  dat  efde  domer- 
nick  hadn't  crowed  on  de  roof.' 

"  Den  de  judge  sey,  ( Wid  all  de  eminence 
afore  me,  de  exclusion  reached  am  dat  de 
domernicker  am  de  culvert,  en  de  case  ag'inst 
de  defender  am  noller  prostituted.' 

"  En  /  sey  ef  de  domernick  am  de  culvert, 
lack  he  sey,  den  who  broke  up  de  meet'n'  ?  " 


RAGS. 


His  first  recollection  of  anything  was  of 
the  Bottom,  the  uninclosed  acres  just  with- 
out the  city  limits,  the  Vagabondia  of  the 
capital,  and  the  resort  of  numberless  stray 
cattle,  en  route  to  Bonedom.  It  was  the 
cattle  first  called  into  active  play  those  pe- 
culiar characteristics  which  marked  the  early 
career  of  my  hero,  and  gave  evidence  of 
other  characteristics,  equally  unusual,  lying 
dormant  perhaps  in  the  young  heart  of  him, 
but  lacking  the  circumstance  or  surrounding 
of  fate  necessary  to  their  awakening. 

In  one  room  of  a  tumble-down  old  row  of 
buildings  that  had  once  gloried  in  the  name 
of  "  Mills,"  our  Rags  was  born,  among  the 

rats  and  spiders  and  vermin,  to  say  nothing 

104 


105 

of  the  human  vermin  breeding  loathsome 
life  among  its  loathsome  surroundings.  And 
indeed,  what  else  was  to  be  expected,  since 
life  takes  its  color  from  the  color  that  it  rests 
upon  ?  Just  as  the  spring  in  the  Bottom, 
where  man  and  beast  quench  alike  their 
thirst,  becomes  a  fever-breeding  pool  when 
the  accumulated  filth  about  it  gets  too  much 
for  even  the  blessed  water.  It  was  here  that 
Rags  was  born.  He  owed  his  name  to  his 
clothes,  and  to  the  kindred  souls  of  the  Bot- 
tom who  had  detected  a  fitness  in  the  nick- 
name, which,  by  the  bye,  soon  became  the 
only  name  he  possessed.  If  he  had  ever  had 
another  nobody  took  the  trouble  to  remember 
it,  while  as  for  him,  he  found  the  name  good 
enough  for  all  his  purposes. 

From  the  time  he  could  use  his  legs  well 
he  was  out  among  the  cattle ;  fetching  water 
in  an  old  oyster  cup  that  he  had  raked  out 
from  an  ash  heap,  for  such  of  the  strays  as 
were  dying  of  thirst ;  or  chasing  the  express 


106 

trains  across  the  Bottom,  saluting  with  his 
one  little  rag  of  a  petticoat  the  engineer  on  the 
tall  trestle  where  the  trains  were  constantly 
crossing  and  recrossing  the  Bottom;  but 
giving  his  best  attention  always  to  the  crip- 
pled cows  and  the  old  horses  abandoned  to 
the  pitiless  death  of  the  Bottom.  Any  one 
who  had  chosen  to  study  his  character  might 
have  detected  the  humane  instinct  at  a  very 
early  age.  The  instinct  of  justice,  too,  was 
rather  strongly  developed,  also  at  an  early 
age. 

Did  I  say  he  was  a  negro  ?  A  mulatto 
with  a  clear  olive  complexion,  kinky  hair, 
and  eyes  that  were  small  and  black,  and 
showed  humor  and  pathos  and  fire  all  in  one 
sharp  flash.  He  was  reared  in  a  queer 
school,  and  the  lessons  he  learned  had 
strange  morals  to  them.  It  is  no  wonder 
they  worked  unusual  results. 

The  first  patient  that  came  under  Rags' 
ministration  was  an  old  cow  which  had  been 


107 

abandoned  to  the  mercy  of  the  Bottom,  and 
which,  in  an  attempt  to  return  to  its  un- 
worthy owner  perhaps,  had  been  caught  by 
a  passing  engine  and  tossed  from  the  trestle, 
thereby  getting  its  back  broken.  Rags 
faithf ully  plied  the  tin  cup  all  the  afternoon, 
only  to  see  at  evening  the  poor  old  beast 
breathe  its  last,  leaving  its  bones  to  bleach 
upon  the  common  graveyard  of  its  kind,  the 
Bottom. 

The  next  morning  Rags'  old  grandmother 
found  the  boy  engaged  in  rather  a  promising 
attempt  to  fire  the  bridge,  to  wreck  the  car, 
that  killed  the  cow,  that  roamed  the  wild, 
that  Rags  ruled. 

When  she  had  pulled  him  away  from  the 
trestle,  and  had  dragged  him  home  and 
thrashed  him  soundly,  what  she  said  was, 
"  You  fool  you,  don't  you  know  they'll  jail 
you  fur  life  if  they  ketch  you  tryin'  to  burn 
that  bridge  ?  " 

If  they  caught  him.     Rags  had  learned 


103 

shrewdness  if  not  virtue;  henceforth  he 
resolved  not  to  abandon  rascality,  but 
to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  overtaken  in 
it. 

His  life  from  the  time  he  could  remember 
"was  a  series  of  beatings  and  a  season  of 
neglect.  Of  his  mother  he  retained  no 
recollection  whatever;  he  had  at  a  very 
early  stage  of  the  life-game  fallen  to  the 
mercy  of  his  grandmother  and  her  rod. 
When  he  was  not  being  beaten  he  was  roam- 
ing the  Bottom,  along  with  the  other  stray 
cattle — they  of  the  soulless  kind. 

Once  he  remembered  a  party  of  very  fine 
folk  that  had  come  out  in  carriages  to  look 
after  the  old  horses  that  had  been  cast  out 
by  the  owners  they  had  served  while  service 
was  in  them.  A  great  to-do  had  been  made 
over  the  condition  of  the  dumb  things  found 
there,  and  more  than  one  heartless  owner 
had  been  forced  to  carry  home  and  care  for 
the  beast  that  had  served  him.  But  the  little 


109 

human  stray  that  fate  had  abandoned  to 
destruction — there  was  no  humane  society 
whose  business  it  was  to  look  after  him. 
But  then  the  cities  are  so  full,  so  crowded 
with  these  little  vagabond-strays  ;  what  is  to 
be  done  about  it? 

So  Rags  drifted  along  with  the  fresh  cattle 
that  wandered  into  his  domain,  until  one 
morning  in  January,  when  he  awoke  from 
sleep  without  being  beaten  and  dragged  from 
his  bed  for  a  worthless  do-nothing.  He  sat 
up  among  the  bedclothes  that  made  his 
pallet  and  wondered  what  had  happened.  It 
was  broad  daylight ;  the  sun  streamed  in  at 
the  curtainless  window;  while  over  in  the 
city  the  shrill,  sharp  sound  of  whistles 
proclaimed  the  noon.  In  all  his  life  he  had 
never  had  such  a  sleep.  The  wonder  of  it 
quite  stupefied  him.  He  soon  remembered, 
however,  that  a  reckoning  would  be  required ; 
the  wonder  was  that  the  reckoning  had  not 
already  been  called  for.  He  sat  up,  rubbing 


110 

his  eyes  and  looking  about  him.  Over  in 
the  corner  stood  his  grandmother's  bed ;  the 
covers  were  drawn  up  close  about  a  figure, 
long,  rigid,  distinctly  outlined  under  the  faded 
covers.  Sleep  never  yet  gave  a  body  that 
stiff,  unreal  pose — only  the  one  sleep.  The 
old  grandmother  had  faUen  upon  that  sleep. 

After  her  death  Rags  found  a  shelter  with 
a  very  old  negress  whom  he  called  "  Aunt 
Jane,"  a  cripple,  who  lived  over  in  the  city, 
in  a  little  den  of  a  room  off  one  of  the  chief 
thoroughfares,  where  progress  was  too  busy 
to  ferret  out  such  small  concerns.  From  the 
very  first  Rags  was  fond  of  the  woman, 
possibly  because  she  did  not  beat  him. 

And  now  it  was  that  he  began  really  to 
live.  In  an  incredibly  short  time  he  became 
an  expert  sneak  thief.  The  evil  in  him 
developed  with  indulgence.  And  so  too — 
alas,  the  wonder  of  it! — did  the  humane. 
He  was  a  strange  contradiction ;  in  color  he 
would  have  been  called  "  a  rare  combination." 


Ill 

He  would  risk  his  life  to  rescue  a  child  from 
peril,  and  he  would  risk  his  liberty  for  the 
penny  in  the  child's  pink  fingers.  He  was 
not  cruel ;  he  had  no  fight  against  the  rich. 
He  only  wanted  to  keep  Aunt  Jane  and  him- 
self in  food,  and  rags  sufficient  to  cover 
their  nakedness.  He  was  not  grasping ;  on 
the  contrary,  when  he  had  more  than  was 
absolutely  necessary  for  their  immediate 
needs,  he  would  give  a  bite  to  a  less  fortunate 
comrade  of  the  gutters.  He  did  not  do  this 
with  any  idea  of  show  either,  which  cannot 
be  said  of  all  who  give  to  beggars ;  he  gave 
because  of  the  humane  that  was  a  part  of 
him ;  having  given,  he  never  gave  the  matter 
another  thought. 

He  had  a  wonderful  mind  for  deducing 
conclusions,  as  well  as  for  refusing  con- 
clusions founded  upon  premises  that  were 
unsatisfactory  to  his  ideas  of  justice. 

One  morning,  when  Rags'  years  had  gone 
as  far  as  twelve,  a  great  circus  came  to  the 


112 

city  in  which  fate  had  decreed  him  citizen- 
ship. Rags  made  one  of  the  hundreds  who 
followed  the  great  procession  of  cages  show- 
ing the  painted  faces  of  monkeys,  apes,  and 
ourang-outangs,  moving  majestically  down 
the  crowded  street,  halting  now  and  then,  as 
the  law  required,  to  give  right  of  way  to  a 
passing  street-car. 

Following  the  procession,  pressing  close  to 
the  cages,  watching  the  wonderful  pictured 
monkeys,  an  eager,  absorbed  look  upon  his 
face,  was  a  little  boy.  He  could  not  have 
been  more  than  six  years  of  age,  and  had 
evidently  escaped  from  his  nurse  and  been 
crowded  off  the  pavement  into  the  almost 
equally  crowded  street.  His  rich,  dainty 
clothing,  his  carefully  curled,  bright  hair,  no 
less  than  the  delicate,  patrician  features 
proclaimed  him  a  child  of  the  upper  classes. 
Nobody  noticed  him  ;  nobody  but  Rags,  inch- 
ing along  by  the  chimpanzees'  cage.  Rags' 
keen  eye  had  caught  the  glint  of  silver  in  the 


little  animal-lover's  hand.  It  was  the  child's 
money  to  get  into  the  circus,  and  which,  as 
an  inducement  to  manliness  perhaps,  he  had 
been  allowed  to  carry. 

"  Brr-rr-rr-rr  !  "  sneered  Rags.  "  No  use 
o'  that.  Kin  crope  under  the  tent,  easier'n 
eat'n.  That's  how  I  do."  And  he  inched 
nearer,  his  eyes  never  once  removed  from  the 
small,  half-clinched  hand  holding  the  bit  of 
silver.  The  circus  was  for  the  moment  forgot- 
ten ;  the  painted  monkeys  grinned  on,  unob- 
served by  Rags ;  the  lion  lashed  its  tawny 
sides  in  malicious  anticipation  of  a  broken  bar 
or  an  inadvertent  lifting  of  the  cage  door ; 
the  humped-backed  camels  in  the  rear  of  the 
procession  plodded  along  under  the  per- 
suasions of  the  boys  in  orange  and  purple 
and  gay  scarlet  mounted  upon  their  unwill- 
ing backs.  Rags  was  unconscious  of  it  all 
— and  of  the  car  coming  down  the  street  in 
a  crackle  and  flash  of  electricity. 

The  first  thing  he   did  see  clearly  was  a 
8 


114 

little  golden  head  go  down  under  the  strong, 
lightning-fed  -wheels.  He  gave  a  wild,  un- 
earthly shriek  and  dashed  to  the  rescue.  A 
hundred  throats  took  up  the  cry ;  a  hundred 
feet  hurried  to  help.  But  too  late.  A  little 
motionless  bundle  of  gay  clothes  and  bright 
hair,  with  crimson  spots  upon  the  brightness, 
lay  upon  the  track  when  the  fiery  wheels  had 
passed.  And  near  by  lay  Rags,  his  eyes 
seeing  nothing,  and  the  toes  of  one  foot 
lying  the  other  side  the  track. 

It  was  months  before  he  could  hobble 
about  again ;  but  the  very  first  trip  he  made 
was  to  limp  down  to  the  place  where  the 
accident  had  occurred,  and,  leaning  against 
the  iron  fence  of  a  yard  that  opened  off  the 
sidewalk,  to  go  over  the  whole  scene  again. 
Had  the  boy  escaped  ?  he  wondered ;  and 
what  had  become  of  the  silver  ?  He  fancied 
it  might  be  out  there  in  the  gray  slush  some- 
where, together  with  his  own  poor  toes.  At 
the  thought  of  them  he  grew  faint  and  sick, 


$ag0.  115 

leaning  against  the  fence  to  prevent  himself 
falling  into  the  gutter. 

While  he  stood  thus  a  physician's  buggy 
drew  up  to  the  sidewalk,  and  a  man  got  out. 
He  saw  the  very  miserable-looking  boy  lean- 
ing upon  a  crutch  and  stopped. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Rags,  "I  ain't  sick."  Then 
as  the  man  was  about  to  pass  on  he  rallied 
his  courage  and  said,  "  Where's  the  boy  wuz 
hurt  that  day?" 

"  The  boy  ?  " 

"  The  boy  what  the  car  runged  over ; 
where's  he  at  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  The  little  boy  that  was  run  over 
the  day  of  the  circus  you  mean  ?  He  is 
dead.  The  car  killed  him.  The  company 
will  have  it  to  pay  for." 

Dead  !  The  little  brown  face  twitched 
nervously ;  the  sight  of  it  set  the  physician's 
memory  twitching  also. 

"  Now   I  wonder,"  said  he,  "  if  you  are 


116 

not  the  boy  who  got  hurt  trying  to  save  the 
little  fellow  ?  That  was  a  brave  act,  my 
boy." 

There  was  a  mist  in  the  vagabond's 
eyes. 

"  I  couldn't,  though,"  said  he.  "  Them 
wheels  wuz  too  quick  for  me.  They — 

kotched — uv — him ."  He  drew  his  old 

sleeve  across  his  face ;  he  had  been  sick  and 
was  still  weak  and  nervous ;  it  was  a  new 
thing  with  Rags  to  cry. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  laying  his  hand  upon 
the  boy's  head.  "  It  was  a  brave,  grand 
thing  to  do.  It  will  stand  for  you  with  God 
some  day  ;  remember  that,  if  you  are  ever  in 
trouble.  You  did  your  best ;  you  tried  to 
save  a  feUow-being;  you  gave  up  one  of 
your  feet  almost;  crippled  yourself  for  life 
in  order  to  rescue  another  from  death  ;  and 
although  you  failed,  you  still  did  your  best. 
That  is  all  God  cares  to  know;  the  deed 
stands  with  God  for  just  what  we  mean  it. 


117 

He  will  count  it  for  you  some  day,  God 
will!" 

The  brown,  tear-wet  face  looked  into  his 
with  a  strangely  puzzled  expression. 

"  God?  "  said  Rags,  «  who's  God  ?  " 

"  Boy,  where  were  you  brought  up — not 
to  know  the  good  God,  who  watches  over 
you,  over  everybody,  and  loves  us  all,  and  cares 
for  us  ?  "  He  paused,  looked  down  into  the 
knowing  little  old  face,  and  wondered  what 
manner  of  trick  the  beggar  was  trying  to 
put  upon  him. 

Suddenly  the  dark  face  lighted.  Rags 
had  turned  questioner.  "  An'  you  say  God 
sees  ever'thin'  ?  He  seen  the  car  what 
ranged  over  the  little  kid  ?  God  wuz  a- 
watchin'?  Could  God  'a'  stopped  it?  " 

"  Certainly." 

The  dark  face  took  on  the  first  vindictive 
expression  it  had  ever  worn.  Rags  had  been 
asked  to  believe  too  much ;  the  mystery  of 
God's  measures  was  too  vast  for  the  street 


118 

child's  comprehension ;  his  conclusion  was 
deduced  only  from  the  most  humane  of  pre- 
mises. 

"Damn  God,"  said  he.  "I  wouldn't  a 
let  it  runged  over  a  cow,  nor  a  dog,  nor  a 
rat ;  an'  I  ain't  nothin',  I  ain't." 

"  You're  a  wicked  sinful  boy,  that's  what 
you  are,  and  you  ought  to  be " 

"  It's  a  lie,"  said  Rags  stoutly.  "  I  ain't 
done  nothin'  half  as  mean  as  God  done. 
Psher !  Damn  God,  I  say." 

"  Papers  ?  Papers  ?  Want  a  paper, 
mister?" 

The  newsboy's  insistent  cry  had  to  be 
silenced  ;  when  that  was  done  the  good  man 
who  had  stopped  to  speak  the  "word  in 
season  "  looked  to  see  Rags  limping  down 
the  street  upon  the  feet  maimed  in  humanity's 
cause,  and  quite  too  far  away  to  recall.  He 
was  half  tempted  to  get  into  his  buggy  and 
go  after  him  ;  there  was  that  about  the  boy 
that  was  strangely  and  strongly  appealing. 


119 

But  he  considered :  "  The  city  is  full  of 
vagabonds  like  him  ;  a  man  cannot  shoulder 
them  all ;  after  all  nobody  knows  that  he  is 
really  the  boy  he  professes  to  be ;  the  papers 
said  that  boy  was  carried  off  by  an  old 
negress,  a  cripple,  nobody  could  tell  where." 
Rags  passed  on  and  out  of  his  sight  forever. 

The  matter  ended  there,  so  far  as  the  man 
knew.  But  Rags,  hobbling  down  the  street, 
gave  expression  to  his  thought  with  sudden 
vehemence. 

"  Somef 'n's  allus  a-killin'  o'  somef 'n'," 
said  he.  "  Firs'  it  wuz  a  cow  ;  then  it  wuz 
a  boy ;  somef'n's  wrong." 

He  had  no  idea  wherein  the  wrong  lay ; 
he  had  never  heard  of  Eden  and  the  great 
First  Cause ;  but  he  had  witnessed  two 
tragedies. 

He  was  able  to  throw  away  his  crutch 
after  awhile,  but  was  painfully  lame,  and  he 
was  never  quite  able  to  shut  out  the  vision 
of  a  little  golden  head  under  a  whirl  of  rush- 


120 

ing,  fiery  wheels.  Another  thing  that  he 
remembered  was  that  God  could  have  pre- 
vented the  catastrophe. 

With  the  winter  Aunt  Jane  grew  so  feeble 
that  Rags  was  forced  to  add  begging  to  his 
list  of  accomplishments.  Day  in,  day  out, 
his  stub  toes  travelled  up  and  down  the 
sleety  pavements  in  search  of  food,  and  a 
few  pennies  whereby  to  keep  a  spark  of  fire 
on  the  hearth  before  which  the  old  negress 
sat  in  her  rope-bottomed  chair  trying  to  keep 
warmth  in  her  pain-racked  limbs. 

It  was  Christmas  day  and  the  shops  were 
closed  ;  even  the  fruit-venders  were  off  duty 
in  the  forenoon,  so  that  Rags  found  begging 
a  profitless  employment  that  morning.  At 
noon  he  had  not  tasted  food  since  the  night 
before,  nor  had  old  Jane.  He  looked  in  at 
one  o'clock  io  rake  over  the  ashes  and  hand 
her  a  cup  of  water.  She  still  sat  before  the 
hearth,  her  feet  thrust  in  among  the  warm 
ashes.  The  old  face  looked  strangely  gray 


3*0*.  121 

and  weary.  Rags  felt  that  she  was  starving. 
She  looked  up  to  say,  in  that  half-affection- 
ate way  that  had  made  Rags  a  son  to  her, 
"Neb'  min',  son,  I  ain'  so  hongry  now; 
mebby  someun  gwine  gib  you  a  nickle  dis 
ebenin'  anyhow." 

Her  faith  sent  him  out  again  to  try  for  it. 
At  three  o'clock  he  passed  a  house  with  glass 
doors  opening  down  to  the  street,  revealing 
a  scene  which,  to  Rags'  hungry  eyes,  was  the 
most  royal  revelling.  Some  children  were 
having  a  Christmas  dinner-party.  The  table 
was  spread  with  the  daintiest  of  luxuries — 
oranges,  grapes,  and  the  golden  bananas  ; 
cakes  that  were  frosted  like  snow ;  candies 
of  every  kind  and  color.  So  much ;  so  much 
that  would  never  be  eaten,  and  he  asked  for 
so  little !  What  beggar  doesn't  know  the 
feeling?  Around  the  table  a  group  of 
happy  children  toyed  with  the  food  for 
which  Rags  was  starving ;  he  watched  them 
through  the  glass  door  like  a  hungry  bear, 


122 

yet  not  thinking  of  himself  and  his  own 
great  hunger.  He  was  thinking  how  just 
one  of  those  brown  loaves  heaped  upon  the 
side-table  would  put  new  life  into  the  old 
woman  at  home.  Had  there  been  the 
slightest  chance  for  stealing  a  loaf,  Rags 
would  have  spent  not  a  moment  of  time  at 
the  glass  door  more  than  was  necessary  to 
possess  himself  of  the  coveted  feast. 

He  watched  a  white-aproned  waiter  care- 
fully slice  a  loaf  and  slip  a  thin  piece  of  ham 
between  two  of  the  narrow  slices  and  serve 
to  the  overfed  children,  who  nibbled  a 
bite  out  of  their  sandwiches  and  threw  them 
aside  for  the  daintier  knickknacks.  The 
sight  of  the  wasted  food  almost  drove  him 
mad.  Oh,  to  get  behind  that  plate  glass  for 
one  moment ! — for  one  chance  at  the  bread 
which  the  rich  man's  child  had  thrown  away ! 
He  felt  as  though  he  could  have  killed  some- 
body if  that  would  have  given  him  the 
food. 


123 

Then,  without  warning,  without  any  sort 
of  volition  on  his  part,  there  came  to  him  a 
recollection  of  the  man  who  had  told  him 
about  God.  Why  not  try  if  there  was  any 
truth  in  what  the  man  had  said  ?  Surely 
God  would  never  find  a  more  propitious  time 
for  exercising  His  power.  He  was  ignorant 
alike  of  creeds  and  conditions  ;  he  was  simply 
trying  God  as  God,  and  all-powerful ;  dis- 
robed of  all  things  earthy  and  impossible. 

"  God,"  said  he,  "don't  you  see?  Don't 
you  know  they've  got  it  all,  more  than  they 
kin  eat  ?  An'  don't  you  know  Aunt  Jane 
is  starvin'  ?  I  want  some  of  it,  God !  I 
want  it  fur  her,  fur  Aunt  Jane.  Give  it  to 
me.  He  said  you  kin  give  it  to  me,  God. 
God  !  God !  God !  I  say,  give  it  to  me,  fur 
Aunt  Jane." 

As  the  crude  petition  ended  the  aproned 
waiter  stepped  to  the  side-door  with  a  plate 
of  scraps  in  his  hand  and  whistled  softly  to  a 
little  terrier  dog  that  came  frisking  up  to 


124  $00. 

get  them.  The  man  had  no  sooner  dis- 
appeared within  the  door  than  Rags  seized 
upon  the  cast-out  bits.  The  dog  resented 
the  intrusion  upon  his  rights  in  a  low  growl 
that  brought  the  waiter  to  the  door  again. 
Rags  made  one  dash  for  the  precious  heap 
before  he  disappeared  around  the  corner. 
Safe  out  of  sight  he  took  an  inventory  of  his 
possessions ;  half  a  slice  of  bread,  a  filbert,  a 
lemon-rind,  a  banana  with  a  spoiled  spot  on 
one  end,  and  a  half-eaten  pickle.  A  pitiful 
mixture  for  which  to  risk  his  liberty,  but  his 
heart  beat  with  jubilance  that  found  expres- 
sion in  words  as  he  hurried  off  home  with 
his  treasures  : 

"I  got  it,  anyhow,"  he  was  mumbling. 
"  You  wouldn't  git  it  fur  a  pore  ole  nigger 
as  wuz  starvin',  but  I  got  it,  Mr.  God ;  I 
stole  it  fum  the  dogs." 

The  maimed  foot  came  down  upon  a  bit 
of  ice  that  must  have  brought  him  to  the 
ground  with  a  smart  thump  but  for  a  hand 


125 

that  was  put  out  to  stay  him — a  strong,  safe, 
woman's  hand ;  the  hand  of  a  lady ;  white, 
soft,  bejewelled.  It  rested  for  a  moment 
upon  Rags'  tattered  old  sleeve ;  the  velvet 
of  her  wrap  brushed  his  cheek.  In  all  his 
hard  little  lif e  he  had  never  felt  anything 
like  it.  There  was  about  her  that  presence 
of  cleanliness  which  attaches  to  some  women 
like  a  perfume. 

"  Are  you  hurt,  little  boy?  "  she  asked. 

At  the  voice's  sweetness  the  dark  eyes 
lifted  to  hers  suddenly  filled  with  tears. 
Like  a  far-off  gleam  of  light  it  came  to  him 
that,  after  all,  there  might  be  a  side  of 
humanity  with  which  he  had  never  come  in 
contact;  a  something  responding  to  some- 
thing within  himself,  deep  down,  unknown, 
unnamed,  like  the  glorious  possibilities 
slumbering  unchallenged  within  his  own 
benighted  little  soul. 

The  owner  of  the  voice  stood  looking 
down  a  moment  at  the  queer,  silent  little 


126 

figure,  the  rags,  with  the  tawny-brown  skin 
showing  through,  the  maimed  foot,  and  the 
tears  which  the  little  beggar  staunchly 
refused  to  let  fall.  She  was  young  and 
beautiful ;  she  belonged  to  God's  great 
army  of  good  women  whom  the  less  philan- 
thropic are  pleased  to  denominate  "  cranks." 

"  What  is  your  name,  boy  ?  "  she  asked, 
releasing  the  tattered  sleeve. 

"  Rags." 

The  pathos  of  the  reply,  and  the  name's 
great  fitness,  appealed  to  her  more  than  any 
beggar's  plea  he  could  have  framed. 

She  thrust  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her 
velvet  wrap  and  took  from  it  her  purse. 

"  You  are  to  buy  yourself  something  to 
eat,  and  then  you  are  to  come  to  me — there. 
Anybody  can  show  you  the  place." 

She  placed  a  half-dollar  and  a  white  visit- 
ing card  in  his  hand,  and  passed  on  before 
Rags  could  fashion  a  reply  ;  even  had  there 
been  anything  for  him  to  say.  His  usually 


3X0.  127 

nimble  tongue  had  no  words  for  the  great 
event  that  had  come  into  his  life,  but  the 
quick  brain  had  opened  to  receive  a  thought 
— a  thought  which,  like  fire,  carried  all  his 
fierce  doubts  before  it. 

"  He  heard  me  !  He  heard  me  ! — God 
did." 

It  had  come  direct,  swift,  certain.  And 
the  knowledge  of  prayer  answered  thrilled 
him  with  a  strange,  sweet  awe  that  was 
almost  fearful  in  its  intensity.  The  man 
had  spoken  truly;  there  was  a  God;  He 
had  given  him  food  and  help  for  Aunt  Jane. 
Ah !  He  was  a  good  God,  though  He  let 
the  little  boy  be  killed ;  perhaps  he  should 
know  why  some  day,  when  he  came  to  know 
Him  better.  He  would  have  many  things 
to  ask  Him,  many  things  to  tell  Him — this 
good  God  that  kept  them  from  starving. 
He  had  not  thought  to  throw  away  the 
scraps  he  had  taken  from  the  dog  nor 
stopped  to  buy  the  dinner  of  which  he  stood 


128 

in  such  sore  need.  The  knowledge  of  food 
possible  had  served  to  blunt  the  edge  of 
hunger.  He  only  wanted  to  get  home  with 
his  wonderful  news,  to  get  a  bite  for  Aunt 
Jane  ;  and  then  by  and  by,  when  she  could 
spare  him,  he  would  find  the  lady. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered, 
calling  the  good  news  as  he  went.  The  old 
negress  was  sitting  just  as  he  had  left  her  in 
the  big  chair  before  the  fireless  hearth.  She 
neither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  sat  with  her 
head  leaned  back  against  the  chair,  mouth 
open,  and  the  sightless  eyes  staring,  unsee- 
ing, away  into  that  mystery  where  none 
might  follow.  Instantly  he  recognized  that 
she  was  dead.  He  stood  looking  at  her  in 
awe,  stricken,  silenced,  frightened ;  not  at 
death  but  at  life,  which  he  began  to  under- 
stand was  something  too  deep  and  vast  and 
terrible  for  him.  It  was  the  second  time 
that  death  had  met  him  thus,  the  third  time 
they  two  had  faced  each  other  without 


129 

warning  or  preparation.  The  persistency 
with  which  it  seemed  to  trail  and  pursue  him 
sent  a  kind  of  superstitious  thrill  through 
him.  What  a  tragedy  in  a  nutshell  his  life 
had  been ! 

He  glanced  from  the  changed,  dead  face 
to  his  full,  clinched  hands,  and  slowly  his 
fingers  opened.  The  silver  rang  upon  the 
hearth  bricks  and  disappeared  quickly  in  the 
fireless  white  ashes,  as  though  fleeing  from 
the  new  presence  in  the  room.  The  broken 
bits  of  food  lay  upon  the  floor  at  the  dead 
woman's  feet,  and  the  lady's  white  visiting 
card  fell,  face  up,  forgotten,  as  with  a  wild 
cry  Rags  turned  and  fled — away  from  death, 
away  into  the  ice-crusted,  frozen  street ;  away 
from  lif e  and  its  too  mysterious  meaning. 

A  wagon  was  coming  down  the  street  as 
he  tried  to  cross,  and  in  his  haste  he  tripped 
and  fell.  He  heard  the  driver's  startled 
shout  to  the  horses,  but  he  did  not  know  when 

the  wagon  passed  over  him. 
y 


130 

The  crowd  that  gathered  was  not  alto- 
gether drawn  by  curiosity  to  see  the  little 
maimed  body  of  a  child  among  the  slush  and 
ice  of  the  street.  A  lady  in  velvet  was  pick- 
ing her  way  through  the  frozen  mud,  giving 
directions  to  the  driver  of  the  team. 

"  Carry  him  in  there,"  she  commanded, 
pointing  to  the  door  Rags  had  left  wide 
open.  "  I  saw  him  run  out  of  there ;  I  was 
following  him.  Then  do  some  of  you  men 
run  for  the  hospital  wagon,  quick — don't 
stand  there  staring,  you  may  need  it  your- 
selves some  day.  Be  easy  with  him,  my 
man,  there  is  life  there  yet/' 

Within  the  room  to  which  they  bore  him, 
an  old  woman's  dead  face,  lifted  to  the 
sooted  ceiling  with  a  kind  of  defiant  triumph, 
met  them ;  half  hidden  by  the  white  ash  upon 
the  hearth  a  piece  of  coldish  gray  silver 
seemed  to  be  spying  upon  their  movements ; 
and  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  a  bit  of  white 
cardboard,  bearing  the  marks  of  a  child's 


131 

soiled  fingers,  lay  turned  up  to  catch  the 
winter  sun  streaming  through  the  uncurtained 
window  ;  the  black  letters  seemed  to  catch  a 
radiance  of  their  own  : 

Isabel  Gray. 

The  Woman's  Relief  Society. 
72  N.  Summer. 

When  Rags  opened  his  eyes  in  the  hos- 
pital they  rested  upon  a  lady,  richly  dressed, 
standing  at  his  bedside.  She  saw  the  rec- 
ognition in  the  wide,  wondering  eyes,  and 
stooping,  spoke  his  name  : 

"  Rags  ?  " 

"  Yessum,"  said  Rags,  "  yessum,  I  hears 
yer,  Miss  Lady." 

"Boy,"  she  began,  startled,  and  afraid 
that  the  struggling  life  might  slip  before  she 
could  deliver  her  message  to  the  wanderer — 
"  boy,  do  you  know  who  sent  me  to  you  ?  " 

Under  its  cuts  and  bruises  the  dark  face 
glowed. 


132  gag*. 

"  Yessum,"  said  Rags,  "  hit  wuz  God. 
Dat  ar  white  man  say  God  ud  count  it  up  fur 
me,  an'  I  reckin  He  done  it." 

She  hadn't  the  least  idea  what  he  was 
talking  about,  but  she  understood  that  some- 
one had  dropped  a  seed.  Slowly  the  beauti- 
ful head  drooped  forward,  the  lips  moved 
softly,  but  with  no  sound  that  could  reach 
beyond  the  ear  of  God  : — 

"  Lord,  if  I  might  rescue  one,  but  one,  of 
Thy  poor  wandering  race !  " 


OLE  LOGAN'S  COURTSHIP. 


OLE  Loge  he's  been  a-courtin'. 

Naw  ! 

Is,  now.  He  tol'  big  Si,  his  uncle,  an* 
big  Si  he  tol'  little  John,  his  nevvy,  an'  little 
John  he  tol'  me.  Little  John  wuz  comin' 
down  the  road  f'm  his  place,  j'inin'  mine  on 
yon  side,  an'  I  met  him — jest  like  I  met  you 
bit  ago,  comin'  up  f'm  your,  j'inin'  mine  on 
t'  other  side — an'  him  an'  me  we  sot  our- 
se'ves  on  the  rail  fence  here  jest  like  me  an' 
you're  doin'  of  now ;  an'  little  John  he  wuz 
pow'ful  tickled  about  somethin'.  I  didn't 
know  at  first  that  thar  loose- j 'in ted,  hide- 
bound, bean-pole  figger  of  Loge  Beaseley 
wuz  passin'  down  t'  the  crossroads  yander. 

Little  John   he   begin   to   whittle  a   cedar 

133 


134 

splinter,  like  I'm  a-doin',  an'  whilst  he  wuz 
whittlin'  uv  the  cedar  he  toP  me  about  ole 
Loge's  goin'  a-courtin'. 

An'  little  John  he  said  the  firs'  thing 
Loge  had  to  git  his  own  consent  to  wuz  the 
makin'  of  his  mind  up.  When  that  wuz 
done  the  worst  wuz  over — so  Logan  allowed. 
But  shucks !  it  wuz  no  more  en  half,  if  Logan 
hadn'  been  sech  a  blamed  fool  not  to  know 
it.  But  you  see,  bein'  ez  it  had  took  Loge 
nigh  about  forty  year  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  go  court'n'  it  seemed  sort  o'  big  when  he 
got  it  made  up,  naturly. 

An*  his  ma,  ez  thinks  to  this  good  minute 
Loge's  wearin'  knee  pants  an'  caliker  jackets 
— when  he  toP  his  ma  'bout  his  aimin'  to  git 
married,  the  ole  lady  jest  bust  out  a-cryin' 
and  said  she  wuz  afeard  he  wuz  too  young 
to  know  how  to  choose,  an'  hadn't  he  better 
put  it  off  a  spell  till  she  could  look  about  fur 
him? 

But  Loge  allowed  he  had  about  made  up 


me  % ogan^  tortstop.  135 

his  mind  it  wuz  to  be  one  o'  the  Sid  Fletcher 
gals,  though  he  ain't  no  ways  made  up  his 
mind  as  to  which  un.  Then  little  John  said 
as  how  his  ma  took  on  mightily,  and  said  the 
Sid  Fletcher  gals  wouldn't  do  no  ways  in 
the  worP  'count  o'  their  pa  bein'  an  unbe- 
liever. She  wuz  afeard  it  might  be  in  the 
blood. 

But  Loge  he  helt  out  fur  the  Sid  Fletcher 
gals,  so  little  John  say,  and  went  upstairs 
to  black  his  boots.  They  wuz  his  Sunday 
boots,  an'  they  ain't  been  wore  much  since 
ole  Miss  Hooper  died,  in  the  Cripple  Creek 
neighborhood,  two  years  back.  An'  his  ma, 
sett'n'  downstairs  an'  hearin'  the  blackin' 
box  whackin'  back  into  its  place  on  the  floor 
ever'  time  Loge  took  the  bresh  out'n  it,  she 
smiled  like  an'  begin  to  wonder  ef  't  be  Miss 
Mary,  though  she  'lowed  it  might  be  Mandy ; 
it  couldn't  in  reason  be  that  thar  frisky  little 
Jinnie. 

Then  she  hoped  to  goodness  Loge's  wife 


136  ®lt 

ud  be  a  knitter.  Loge  ud  need  some  un  to 
knit  his  socks  when  she  wuz  gone ;  an'  some 
un  to  darn  'em,  too,  for  she  say  there  wa'n't 
another  man  in  middle  Tennessee  as  hard 
on  his  socks,  solittle  John  said  Loge's  ma 
said,  as  Loge  Beaseley.  An'  as  fur  clean 
socks,  Mis'  Beaseley  allowed  there  hadn't 
been  a  Sunday  mornin'  since  Loge  took 
to  sleepin'  upstairs,  stid  o'  in  the  trundle 
bed  in  her  room,  that  she  ain't  been 
obleeged  to  fetch  his  socks  up  to  his 
door  and  wait  there  to  git  his  s'iled 
ones;  Loge  bein'  that  furgitful  he  ud  put 
on  one  clean  un  an'  one  s'iled  un,  or  one 
white  an'  one  red,  maybe,  or  else  jest 
put  on  both  the  same  ole  s'iled  uns  ag'in 
an'  sen'  the  clean  uns  back  to  the  wash-tub. 
Loge's  bashful,  you  know,  mighty  skeery 
o*  women.  Ain't  never  looked  at  a  gal  on 
Cripple  Creek,  barrin'  the  Sid  Fletcher  gals. 
He  had  opened  uv  the  big  gate  onc't  fur 
Mandy  when  she  rid  a  buckin'  horse  to 


137 

meet'n',  an'  the  blamed  critter  jest  wouldn't 
side  up  to  the  gate  so's  she  c'u'd  reach  the 
latch. 

An'  onc't  when  there  wuz  a  camp-meet' n' 
over  in  the  Fox  Camp  neighborhood,  what 
they  useter  have  ever*  onc't  a  year,  Loge  he 
wuz  there.  An'  he  passed  a  hymn  book  to 
that  pretty  little  Jinnie  o'  the  Sid  Fletcher 
gang.  The  pars'n  he  axed  Loge  to  pass  the 
books  roun',  and  Loge  done  it.  Little  John 
say  he  handed  her  in  an'  about  sevin  books, 
bein'  that  flustrated  he  didn't  know  there's 
anybody  else  at  the  meet'n',  after  Jinnie 
smiled,  an'  said,  "Thank  you,  sir,  I've  got 
a  book,"  ever'  time  Loge  offered  her  another. 

All  the  folks  wuz  smilin'  too,  but  he  didn't 
know  it ;  he  didn't  know  he  had  set  his  big 
foot  down  on  Jinnie's  new  cloth  gaiter,  or 
that  he  had  clear  furgot  to  turn  back  the 
hem  o'  his  pantaloons  that  he  had  turned  up 
in  crossin'  the  creek  on  the  rocks,  bavin* 
walked  over  to  camp  'count  o'  his  ma  havin' 


138  ®\ 

rid  the  sorrel  mare  over  on  Sadday,  her  havin* 
to  fetch  a  lot  o'  victuals  an*  sech  fur  Sunday. 
An'  he  didn't  know  ez  he'd  wore  one  red 
sock  an'  one  white  un  ;  his  ma  not  bein' 
there  to  see  ez  he  got  fellows.  An'  little 
John  say  there  wuz  the  fool  a-poppin'  up  an' 
a-dodgin'  up  an'  down  the  meet'n'  house 
with  three  inches  o'  red  a-shinin'  up  on  un 
leg,  betwixt  shoe  an*  pantaloons,  an'  three 
inches  o'  white  on  t'other — just  like  a  jockey 
at  a  race  track  or  a  fool  clown  in  a  circus 
fur  all  the  worl'. 

An'  little  John  say  to  cap  it  all,  an'  clap 
the  climax,  there  wuz  a  long  white  string  a- 
dodgin'  Loge's  lef  heel  all  roun'  the  meet'n' 
house,  makin'  ole  Loge  look  like  one  o' 
these  here  wooden  limber  jack  fellers  that 
run  up  a  stick  an*  double  theirse'ves  inter  a 
knot  ef  you  pull  a  string.  That's  what  little 
John  say.  An'  ever'body  wuz  a-laffin', 
an*  Jinnie  she  wuz  snickerin'  behin'  her 
hymn-book,  fur  ever'  time  she  smiled  Loge 


he'd  come  a-jouncin'  back  to  poke  another 
book  at  her. 

But  lor,  ole  Loge  allowed  all  them  smiles 
wuz  jest  'count  o'  him;  an'  little  John  say 
that's  how  come  he  first  got  that  fool  notion 
about  goin'  a-courtin.'  Little  John  say  ole 
bach'lors  are  sech  blamed  fools,  an'  so  stuck 
on  theirse'ves,  they  thinks  if  a  woman  looks 
at  'em  they're  breakin'  their  necks  to  marry 
of  'em. 

So  ole  Loge  he  got  it  into  his  head  to  git 
married.  Though  he  wa'n't  settled  in  his 
min'  as  to  which  o'  the  gals  he'd  take.  He 
wuz  kind  o'  stuck  on  the  whole  gang,  little 
John  say.  An'  Loge  say  he  owed  it  ter  all 
o'  'em  to  marry  'em,  he  wuz  'feard.  Now, 
there  wuz  Miss  Mary,  the  ol'est  one;  little 
John  say  Loge  foun'  a  guinea  nes'  onc't  in 
the  corner  o'  the  fur  eend  fence  what  divides 
their  two  plantations.  'Twuz  some  time  in 
May ;  there  wuz  twenty  odd  eggs  in  the  nes' 
when  Loge  found  it.  Little  John  say  Loge 


140  (Die 

knowed  it  wuz  a  guinea  nes'  'count  o'  the 
old  guinea  hen  bein'  a-sett'n'  on  it  whenst  he 
foun'  it.  An'  the  fool  skeered  her  off;  she 
didn't  want  to  git  off  much,  but  Loge  made 
her.  He  punched  her  with  a  fence  rail  till 
he  broke  three  eggs;  but  he  got  her  druv 
off  at  last. 

An'  then  he  picked  up  the  eggs  in  his  hat 
an'  fetched  'em  up  to  the  house,  allowin* 
they  must  be  Miss  Mary's,  bein'  as  they  wuz 
on  her  side  the  fence  ;  and  bein',  too,  as 
Miss  Mary  wuz  the  housekeeper  an'  'tended 
to  the  chickens  an'  things,  her  ma  bein' 
knocked  up  with  rheumatism  fur  the  last 
endurin'  five  years.  So  Loge  he  fetched  the 
eggs  up  in  his  hat,  mighty  keerful  not  to 
break  a  single  one.  He  tromped  across  the 
clover  bottom,  two  corn  fiel's,  a  cotton-patch, 
an'  a  strip  o'  woods  lot,  bareheaded,  in  the 
blazin'  sun;  little  John  say  his  bald  head 
look  like  a  b'iled  beet  with  the  skin  took 
off  when  he  got  to  the  kitchen  door  an' 


'si  ®0uft]$iliip.  141 

give  the  eggs  to  ole  Aunt  Cindy,  the  cook, 
askin'  her  to  give  'em  to  Miss  Mary  fur 
him. 

Ole  Aunt  Cindy  she  looked  sorter  skeered 
like,  a  minute,  an'  then  she  gin  a  grunt,  but 
she  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  till  Loge  uz  gone 
home.  Then  she  walked  out  the  back  door 
an'  flung  them  guinea  eggs  over  in  the  hog 
lot.  Then  she  went  in  the  house  an'  toP 
Miss  Mary  ole  Logan  Beaseley  done  broke 
up  the  guinea  nest  they  wuz  lookin'  fur  to 
hatch  out  nex'  day.  She  say  there  wuz 
twenty-one  little  dead  guineas  layin'  over  in 
the  hog  lot,  all  just  ready  to  hop  out  o'  their 
shells. 

Miss  Mary  didn't  say  much — she's  allus 
mighty  quiet  an'  sober  an'  dignified;  but 
Mandy,  the  second  gal,  she  flared  up  an' 
allowed  a  fool-killer  would  be  a  mighty  wel- 
come vis'tor  to  that  neighborhood,  that  he 
would.  An'  Jinnie,  the  young,  pretty  one, 
she  jest  laffed  out,  fit  to  kill,  an'  asked  Aunt 


142  me 

Cindy  if  she  couldn't  have  scrambled  guineas 
fur  breakfast. 

Ole  Logan  wuz  bewitched,  I  reckin.  Little 
John  says  he  wuz  conjured.  He  didn't 
know  which  o'  the  gals  he  ud  take,  but  he 
tol'  his  ma  he  felt  obligated  to  marry  one  o' 
the  Sid's  'count  o'  havin'  paid  'em  con- 
sider'ble  notice — meanin'  the  big  gate,  the 
hymn-book,  an'  the  guinea  eggs — an'  folks 
ud  be  ap'  to  talk  if  he  didn't.  Besides,  the 
gals  would  expect  it,  an'  feel  sorter  slighted 
if  he  didn't  marry  into  the  fam'ly. 

Him  an'  Sid  wuz  good  frien's.  He  had 
borrowed  Sid's  chilled  plow  onc't  when  his 
own  wuz  at  the  blacksmith's  an'  the  river 
riz  so's  he  couldn't  go  fur  it.  An'  Sid  had 
borrowed  Loge's  steelyards  onc't  to  weigh 
some  cotton,  before  sendin'  of  it  off  to  the 
gin.  He  didn't  visit  anywheres  else  much, 
outside  o'  funer'ls  an'  meet'n's  at  the  church. 

So  he  set  off  on  the  sorrel ;  that  little  runt 
of  a  mare  with  the  sway  back,  an'  a  tail  that 


143 

the  calf  chawed  off  one  night  when  Loge 
put  the  calf  up  in  the  stable  along  o'  the 
mare,  so's  to  keep  it  from  chawin'  up  the 
saddle  blanket  hangin'  in  the  back  po'ch. 
Little  John  say  his  uncle  met  Loge  comin' 
up  the  lane  on  the  sorrel.  He  say  he  knows 
ole  Noah  took  that  little  swayback  in  the  ark 
with  him,  'count  o'  it  bein'  little  like,  an'  its 
back  makin'  a  good  seat  fur  his  grandchillen 
to  ride  on. 

An'  he  say  that  Cripple  Creek  wuz  right 
smart  up,  an'  ole  Loge  had  to  hoi'  up  his 
long  legs  to  keep  'em  out  the  water,  'count 
o'  havin'  on  his  best  Sunday  pantaloons; 
spankin'  new  ones  to  go  courtin'  in.  So 
Loge  he  hitched  his  feet  up  behin'  him, 
'g'inst  the  sway  back's  flanks,  an'  plumb 
furgot  to  take  'em  down  any  more,  but  rid 
right  up  to  the  gate  with  his  legs  hunked 
behin'  him,  like  a  grasshopper  ready  fur  to 
jump. 

He  seen  the  gals  at  the  winder,  all  smilin' 


144  ®u 

a  welcome,  as  Loge  thought,  an'  again  he 
begin  to  wonder,  which  one  he  orter  take. 
He  tied  the  sorrel  to  a  hick'ry  limb  an'  went 
on  up  todes  the  house. 

The  house  has  got  a  new  wing  made  o' 
log  ;  it  ain't  quite  finished  yit,  an'  there's  two 
front  doors.  Loge  couldn't  fur  the  life  uv 
him  tell  which  door  he  orter  take,  an'  he 
begin  to  git  orful  skeered  that  minute.  He 
went  on,  though,  bekase  he  see  he  couldn't 
make  it  back  to  the  sorrel  without  passin'  the 
winder  again ;  an'  he  allowed  to  his  uncle, 
big  Si,  as  how  he'd  a  ruther  died  as  to 
a  parsed  that  there  winder  again.  So  he 
plunged  right  on,  inter  the  wrong  door,  an' 
run  into  the  gals'  room  where  Miss  Mary 
wuz  sort'n'  out  clean  clothes,  'count  o'  it 
bein'  Sadday  evenin'. 

When  she  looked  up  from  the  pile  o' 
petticoats  she  wuz  count' n'  an'  see  that  figger 
o'  Loge's  in  the  door,  she  jest  riz  right  up, 
an'  says  she,  kind  o'  fierce  like,  "  Father's 

•/ 


&U  lagan's  Courtship.  145 

down  in  the  cornfiel' ;  you  can  go  down  there, 
or  I'll  ring  the  bell  fur  him." 

Loge  he  begin  to  twist  his  coat-tails ;  they 
wuz  already  half  way  up  to  his  armpits,  so 
little  John  say,  an'  little  John  say  h«  reckin 
he  clear  f  urgot  about  havin'  come  a-court'n', 
fur  says  he,  "  No'm ;  no,  Miss  Mary,  you 
needn't  ring  the  ole  man  up — I  jest  called 
by  over  here  to — to — er  " — he  saw  a  cedar 
pail  on  the  shelf  in  the  open  passage-way 
betwixt  the  back  end  part  o'  the  house,  the 
dinin'  room  an'  kitchen,  an'  the  front  part 
where  the  fam'ly  lives,  an'  that  cedar  pail 
wuz  the  savin'  uv  him — "  I  jest  come  over 
here,"  says  he,  "  to  git  a  goad  o'  water." 

An'  Miss  Mary  she  stepped  to  the  passage 
with  him,  an'  p'inted  first  to  the  pail  on  the 
shelf  an'  then  to  the  wellsweep  down  in  the 
yard,  an'  says  she,  "  There's  the  pail ;  it's  full 
an'  fresh,  but  if  it  ain't  enough  to  satisfy 
your  thirst,  yonder's  the  well." 

allowed  to  his  uncle  as  he  decided 


146  ®lt  &O$M?»  (ttowct&My. 

right  there  he  wouldn't  choose  Miss  Mary ; 
he  begin  to  see  she  didn't  suit  him.  He  say 
he  wuz  afeard  she  couldn't  darn  socks. 

It  was  jest  when  Loge  lifted  the  goad  to 
his  mouth  that  Jinnie  she  called  out  to 
Miss  Mary  from  her  ma's  room,  an'  sez 
she : — 

"  Sister  Mary,  ma  says  you're  to  fetch  Mr. 
Beaseley  right  in  here  to  the  fire" — the  ole 
'oman  keeps  a  fire  goin'  winter  an'  summer, 
'count  o'  the  rheumatiz — "  she  says  she  knows 
he's  mortal  tired  after  his  thirsty  ride." 

Rid  four  miles  fur  a  goad  o'  water ;  cross 
Cripple  Creek  three  times,  an'  Pant'er  twicet, 
to  say  nothin'  o'  Forkid  Branch  that  winds 
in  an'  out  an'  up  an'  across  them  two 
plantations  like  a  moonstruck  chicken  snake 
tryin'  to  foller  out  the  corporation  line  o' 
them  Tennessee  towns  what  hev  been  down 
with  the  boom  fever,  an'  ain't  made  out  to 
set  itse'f  straight  yit!  That  sharp  little 
Jinnie  seen  through  that  excuse  in  half  a 


€!0ttrt!9toip.  147 

minute,  an'  that's  why  she  called  out  to  Loge 
to  come  in. 

But  little  John  say  the  fool  ain't  no  more'n 
heard  her  voice  than  the  goad  went  whack 
to  the  floor  like  a  sky  rocket  on  the  home  run. 

"  You're  to  come  right  in,  Mr.  Beaseley," 
says  Jinnie,  "  an'  you're  to  put  your  horse 
in  the  barn  first,  if  you  please,  because  pa's 
got  a  new  heifer  cow  that's  Jiad  to  be  turned 
in  the  yard  to  keep  her  out  o'  the  cornfiel'. 
An'  she's  that  give  to  chewin'  things  Aunt 
Cindy  has  to  dry  the  clean  clothes  in  the 
kitchen  to  keep  her  from  eat'n'  us  all  clean 
out  of  a  change.  She's  e't  up  two  tablecloths 
an'  a  sheet,  three  petticoats  an'  a  brand  new 
pair  o'  my  sister  Mary's  stockin's.  She'll 
eat  your  saddle  flaps  teetotally  off  if  you  leave 
your  mare  out  there." 

Ole  Loge  he  looked  foolish  ;  the  yearlin* 
at  home  had  gnawed  them  saddle  skirts  into 
sassage  meat  long  ago.  He  put  his  horse 
up,  though,  in  the  barn — the  big  barn  what 


148  CDU  il 0pw'0 

opens  on  to  the  lane.  An'  little  John  say 
the  blamed  fool  furgot  ter  shut  the  barn 
door,  an'  the  mare  walked  out  same  time  Loge 
did,  an'  walked  right  on  back  home. 

Well,  little  John  say  it  begin  to  rain  todes 
dark,  an'  the  ole  man  he  tol'  Loge  he  mus' 
stay  all  night ;  an'  Loge  he  done  it.  You 
see,  they  built  up  a  right  peart  fire,  'count 
o'  rheumatiz  an'  rain,  an'  they  give  Loge  a 
seat  in  the  cornder.  An'  when  black-eyed 
Mandy  axed  him  if  he  didn't  think  a  sprink- 
lin'  now'n'  then  wuz  healthy,  he  bein'  Metho- 
dist, ole  Loge  got  that  skeered  he  made  a 
lunge  at  the  big  iron  shovil  an'  begin  to 
twist  it  roun'  an'  roun',  an'  to  say  he  didn't 
know  but  what  'twas  !  Then  he  begin  to 
jab  his  fingers  through  the  iron  ring  at  the 
end  o'  the  shovil  handle ;  an'  he  kep'  that 
up  till  he  got  to  his  thumb ;  an'  hit  went 
through  all  right,  but  it  stuck.  Loge  he 
got  plumb  skeered  then  ;  twis'  an*  screw  as 
he  would,  the  darn  thing  wouldn't  budge. 


149 

So  when  ole  man  Sid  axed  him  to  stay  all 
night  he  said  he  would,  bekase  you  see  he 
couldn't  go  home  nohow  if  he'd  a  mind  to 
'less  he  carried  the  shovil,  too. 

An'  then  the  supper  bell  rung,  an'  the  ole 
man'  bid  'em  all  out  to  supper  ;  but  Loge  he 
said  he  wouldn't  choose  any — he  wuzn't  a 
mighty  hearty  feeder  at  night,  count  o' 
dreams.  An'  little  John  say  the  folks  went 
out  an'  left  him,  an'  bein'  left  to  hisse'f  he 
set  about  gittin'  loose.  He  tried  an'  he 
tried ;  an'  at  last  he  made  up  his  min'  to 
sneak  out  the  front  door  and  cut  out  fur 
home,  shovil  an'  all.  Then  he  remembered 
he'd  orter  licked  his  thumb,  an'  he  tried  that, 
but  it  wouldn't  go.  Just  as  he  got  up  to 
tiptoe  out,  the  shovil  hangin'  on  like  a  part- 
ner at  a  picnic,  an'  'bout  the  time  he'd 
walked  half  across  the  room,  the  blamed 
thing  slipped  off'n  that  licked  thumb  o' 
Loge's,  an'  struck  the  hard  floor  like  a  clap 
o'  young  thunder. 


150  me  f  0ptt'0 

Loge  he  jumped  like  a  trounced  frog,  an* 
give  one  skeered  little  beller,  like  a  Durham 
bull  with  the  hiccups. 

Before  the  family  went  in  to  supper  Loge 
he'd  made  up  his  mind,  in  an'  about,  as  it 
mus'  be  Mandy.  It  appeared  's  if  that  yud 
be  more  gratifyin'  to  his  ma,  as  Mandy 
seemed  turned  religious,  talkin'  o'  Methodists 
an'  sech.  But  when  that  shovil  drapped  an* 
Loge  bellered  out  like  he  done,  an'  he  heard 
Miss  Mandy  come  out  into  the  passage  an* 
call  out  to  Jube,  the  hired  man,  that  big 
Buck,  ole  Sid's  yaller  steer,  wuz  in  her  ma's 
room  breakin'  up  things,  Loge  say  he  set  it 
right  down  to  hisse'f  as  she  wouldn't  do  fur 
a  farmer's  wife — not  knowin',  like  she  done, 
that  steers  wouldn't  come  up  into  a  house 
an'  desturb  things,  not  fur  nothin'.  He  say 
farmers'  wives  mus'  learn  better'n  that. 

So  little  John  say  that  Loge  made  choice 
o'  Jinnie.  An'  Jinnie  she  seemed  mighty 
willing  bein'  young  an'  gayly.  An'  she  set 


WmtiMy.  151 

her  cheer  up  close  to  Loge's  an'  talked 
mighty  polite  to  him  after  supper.  She  tol' 
him  he  ought  to  git  married,  an'  have  a  wife 
to  look  after  his  socks  an'  things.  An'  she 
axed  mighty  kind  about  his  ma,  an'  got  it 
all  out  o'  Loge  'bout  his  ma  want'n'  him  to 
wait  till  he  wuz  older,  an'  all  that. 

An'  them  two  talked  on  till  Miss  Mary 
got  up  an'  went  off  to  bed ;  an'  Mandy  went 
out  in  the  kitchen  an'  set  with  ole  Aunt 
Cindy ;  an'  ole  Sid  an'  his  wife  went  sound 
asleep  in  the  chimbly  cornders,  an'  didn't 
wake  up  till  the  clock  wuz  strikin'  twelve. 
Then  the  ole  man  lit  a  light  an'  showed 
Loge  off  into  the  new  room,  hit  being  the 
only  spare  room  in  the  house,  an'  hit  not 
finished.  As  I  wuz  sayin'  the  daubing 
wuzn't  all  in,  nor  all  the  chinkin' ;  but  bein 
May,  an'  Loge  healthy,  the  ole  man  rumi- 
nated as  that  didn't  matter  much. 

But  he  tol'  Loge  as  he'd  better  blow  out 
his  candle  before  he  undressed  if  he  wuz 


152  m 

afeard  o'  bein'  seen  through  the  cracks. 
An'  Loge  done  it,  an'  when  he  had  done  it 
he  couldn't  find  a  cheer  to  hang  his  Sunday 
pantaloons  on.  He  felt  all  over  the  room, 
mighty  keerful,  but  he  couldn't  find  no 
cheer.  He  wa'n't  goin'  to  hang  them  new 
breeches  on  the  bare  floor,  that  was  mighty 
certain.  An'  he  wuz  afeard  to  hang  'em  on 
the  foot  o'  the  bed,  count  o'  it  bein'  low,  an* 
they  wuz  likely  to  be  rumpled,  too,  Loge 
bein'  consider'ble  of  a  kicker.  So  he  jest 
smoothed  the  pantaloons  out  keerful  an* 
laid  'em,  longways,  between  two  o'  the  logs 
o'  the  house,  where  the  chinkin'  ort  to  'a* 
been.  Little  John  say  Loge  tol'  big  Si  he 
felt  like  it  wuz  a  young  baby  he  wuz  layin' 
by  to  sleep,  he  wuz  that  partic'lar  not  to 
wrinkle  up  his  breeches.  An'  ten  minutes 
after  he  put  'em  there  he  wuz  sound  asleep 
betwixt  two  o'  Miss  Mary's  best  sheets. 

It  wuz  sun-up  when  old  Loge  woke  up, 
an*  the  ole  man  wuz  callin'  him  to  breakfast. 


me  f  00an'0  fltottttWp.  153 

Loge  called  back  he'd  be  there  in  a  minute, 
an'  he  begin  to  hustle  about  to  dress  hisse'f . 
He  reached  fur  his  pantaloons — then  he 
stopped  still,  like  the  blame  blockhead  that 
he  is.  They  wuz  gone  !  clean  gone  !  He 
searched  on  the  floor,  an'  he  flung  off  the  bed 
clothes  to  look  there ;  he  got  down  on  his 
hands  an'  knees  to  look  under  the  bed.  He 
even  tore  open  Miss  Mary's  bureau  drawer 
to  see  if  he  didn't  git  up  in  his  sleep  an* 
cram  'em  in  there.  Then  he  felt  down  his 
long  legs  to  see  if  he  mightn't  forgot  an' 
kep'  'em  on.  Naw,  sir ;  nothin'  there  but 
skin  an'  bone — bare  carcass.  He  scratched 
his  head  an'  tried  to  think ;  they  wuz  sho'ly 
round  somewheres ;  he  had  jist  f urgot,  in 
one  o'  his  absent-minded  fits,  an'  laid  'em 
somewheres.  He  looked  behin'  the  door,  an' 
on  top  the  wardrobe,  an'  under  the  bed 
again  ;  he  pulled  all  the  gal's  things  out  o* 
the  bureau  drawers  an'  shook  'em  up  piece 
by  piece  ;  he  looked  in  the  slop  bucket,  an* 


154 

behin'  the  washstan' ;  he  raked  out  the 
cedar  bresh  the  gals  had  decorated  the  fire- 
place with  an'  looked  there  ;  he  stuck  his 
head  up  the  chimbly  an'  looked  there ;  then 
he  tuk  it  out  again,  kivered  with  soot  an' 
ashes,  an'  went  back  to  bed,  an*  give  out 
that  he  wuz  mighty  sick,  an'  would  some  un 
please  go  fur  his  ma. 

An'  little  John  say  his  ma  come  over  ter- 
rectly,  but  she  went  home  again  in  a  min- 
ute ;  jouncin'  up  an'  down  on  the  swayback 
sorrel  like  a  house  afire.  An'  little  while 
later  she  rid  over  agin  with  a  bundle  tied 
to  the  side-saddle;  an'  after  while  ole 
Loge  he  watched  fur  a  chance  when  there 
wa'n't  nobody  lookin'  to  sneak  off  through 
the  woods  an'  go  home. 

He'd  made  up  his  mind  not  to  marry  yit; 
Jinnie  she  wuz  young,  an'  could  wait  a  bit. 

An'  little  John  say,  that  later  in  the  day 
Jinnie  she  was  nosin'  about  in  the  yard  to 
see  if  her  rose-bushes  wuz  putt'n'  out 


®lt  leaptt'tf  tartstoip.  155 

proper,  an'  she  see  the  new  heifer  cow  a 
munchin'  mighty  contented  like,  on  a  little 
pile  o'  truck  that  looked  like  carpet  rags. 
An'  she  got  a  fishin'  pole  an'  fished  it  up, 
an'  looked  at  it,  laffin'  fit  to  kill  all  the 
time.  Then  she  called  to  the  gals  to  come 
there  quick  ;  an'  when  they  come  says  she, — 

"  Here's  what  ailed  him — here's  why  he 
didn't  want  no  breakfast,  an'  here's  why  his 
ma  made  them  two  trips  this  mornin'." 

Then  Miss  Mandy  she  say  she'd  like  to 
know  what  that  roll  o'  strings  got  to  do 
with  the  clothes  bein'  all  flung  out  o'  the 
drawer.  An'  little  Jinnie  say  she  reckin  ole 
Loge  wuz  lookin'  to  see  if  he  could  find 
anything  'mongst  Miss  Mary's  clothes  as 
would  fit  him,  so's  he  could  come  to  break- 
fast. 

"  Bekase,"  says  she,  "  these  are  bound  to 
be  his  breeches.  I  know  it's  breeches,  by 
the  buckles ;  the  cow  ain't  chawed  them  past 
identifyin'." 


156  me  itopw'0 

Then  little  Jinnie  she  laffed  mightily,  an' 
toP  the  others  she'd  a  good  min'  to  send  the 
things  home  with  her  compliments. 

An'  the  next  week  I  got  a  bid  to  the  wed- 
din'  of  Jinnie  an'  little  John. 

Yes,  sir,  ole  Loge  he  went  a-courtin' ;  he 
toP  big  Si,  his  uncle,  an'  big  Si  he  toP  little 
John,  his  nevvy,  an'  little  John  he  toP  me. 

And  the  man  on  the  rail  fence  chuckled, 
and  went  on  carefully  whittling  the  last  of 
his  cedar  splinter. 


THE  HEART   OF  THE   WOODS. 


TWILIGHT  fell  softly  over  Beersheba, 
beautiful  Beersheba.  It  is  going  into  his- 
tory now  with  its  sad  old  fancies  and  its 
quaint  old  legends,  its  record  of  happiness 
and  of  heartbreak, — those  two  opposing,  yet 
closely  interwoven,  inevitables  which  always 
belong  to  a  summer  resort. 

But  Beersheba  is  different  from  the  rest, 
in  that  the  railroads  have  never  found  it ; 
and  it  goes  into  history  a  monument  to  the 
old  days  when  the  wealthy  among  the 
southern  folk  flocked  to  the  mountains,  and 
to  Beersheba — queen  of  the  hill  country  of 
Tennessee. 

The  western  sky,  where  it  seems  to  slope 

down   toward  Dan,    had   turned   to   gaudy 

157 


158  me  fart  0f  tht 

orange ;  the  east  was  hazy  and  dimly  purple, 
streaked  with  long  lines  of  shadow,  resem- 
bling, in  truth,  some  lives  we  remember  to 
have  noticed,  lives  that  for  all  their  royal 
purple  were  still  blotched  with  the  heavier 
shadows  of  pain  that  is  never  spoken. 

It  was  inexpressibly  lonely;  a  cowbell 
tinkled  in  the  distance,  and  now  and 
then  a  fox  barked  in  a  covert  of  Dark  Hol- 
low, that  almost  impenetrable  jungle  that 
lies  along  the  "  Back  Bone,"  a  narrow, 
zigzag  ridge  stretching  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba. 

Dan,  modest  little  Dan,  seven  furlongs 
distant  from  queenly  Beersheba,  with  its 
one  artistic  little  house,  refusing  in  spite  of 
time  and  weather,  and  that  more  deadly  foe, 
renters,  to  be  other  than  pretty  and  pictur- 
esque, as  it  nestles  like  a  little  gray  dove  in 
its  nest  of  cedar  and  wild  pine.  A  very 
dreamful  place  is  Dan,  dreamful  and  safe. 

Safe;    so  thought  the  man  leaning  upon 


of  tot  Woods*.  159 

the  low  fence  that  inclosed  the  old  ante-bel- 
lum graveyard  that  was  a  part  of  Beersheba 
also.  For  in  the  olden  days  people  came  by 
families  and  family  connections,  bringing 
their  servants  and  carriages.  And  those 
who  died  at  Beersheba  were  left  sleeping  in 
the  little  graveyard — a  quiet  spot,  shut  in 
by  old  cedars  and  rustling  laurel.  A  very 
solemn  little  resting-place,  with  the  cedars 
moaning,  and  the  winds  soughing,  as  if  in  con- 
tinual lament  for  the  dead  left  to  their  care. 
Among  the  quiet  sleepers  was  one  concern- 
ing whom  the  man  leaning  upon  the  fence 
never  tired  of  thinking,  while  he  made,  by 
instinct,  it  seemed  to  him,  a  daily  pilgrimage 
to  her  grave.  It  was  marked  by  a  long, 
narrow  shaft,  exceedingly  small  at  the  top. 
Midway  the  shaft  a  heart,  chased  out  of  the 
yellow,  moss-stained  marble,  a  heart  pierced 
by  a  bullet.  He  had  brushed  the  moss  aside 
long  ago  to  read  the  quaint  yet  fascinating 
inscription : — 


160  ®te  ftot  of  the 

"  MiUicent— April,  1862. 
'Oh,  Shiloh!  Shiloh!'" 
He  had  heard  the  story  of  the  sleeper 
underneath  often,  often.  It  is  one  of  the 
legends,  now,  of  Beersheba.  Yet  he  thought 
of  it  with  peculiar  interest,  that  twilight 
time,  as  he  stood  leaning  upon  the  low  fence 
while  the  sun  set  over  Dan.  His  face,  with 
the  after-glow  of  sunset  full  upon  it,  was 
not  a  face  in  keeping  with  the  quiet  scene 
about  him.  It  was  not  a  youthful  face, 
although  handsome.  Yet  the  lines  upon  it 
were  not  the  lines  made  by  time  :  a  stronger 
enemy  than  time  had  left  his  mark  there. 
Dissipation  was  written  in  the  ruddy  com- 
plexion, the  bloated  flesh,  and  the  bloodshot 
eye.  The  continual  movement  of  the  hand 
feeling  along  the  whitewashed  plank,  or 
fingering,  unconsciously,  the  trigger  of  the 
loaded  rifle,  testified,  in  a  dumb  way,  to  the 
derangement  of  the  nervous  system  which 
had  been  surrendered  to  that  most  debasing 


of  tte  W0oto.  161 


of  all  passions,  drink.  He  had  sought  the 
invigorating  mountains,  the  safety  of  isola- 
tion, to  do  for  him  that  which  an  abused 
and  deadened  will  refused  to  do.  It  is  a 
terrible  thing  to  stand  alone  with  the  wreck 
of  one's  self.  It  is  worse  to  set  the  Might- 
Have-Been  side  by  side  with  the  Is,  and 
know  that  it  is  everlastingly  too  late  to  alter 
the  colorings  of  either  picture. 

His  was  an  hereditary  passion,  an  in- 
iquity of  the  father  visited  upon  the  son. 
Against  such  there  is  no  law,  and  for  such 
no  remedy. 

He  thought  bitterly  of  these  things  as  he 
stood  leaning  upon  the  graveyard  fence. 
His  life  was  a  graveyard,  a  tangle  of  weeds, 
a  plat  of  purposes  overgrown  with  rank  de- 
spair. He  had  struggled  since  he  could  re- 
member. All  his  life  had  been  one  terrible 
struggle.  And  now,  he  knew  that  it  was 
useless,  he  understood  that  the  evil  was  hered- 
itary, and  to  conquer  it,  or  rather  to  free 


162  ®he  goat  of  tht 

himself  from  it,  there  was  but  one  alternative. 
He  glanced  down  at  the  rifle  resting  against 
his  knee.  He  did  not  intend  to  endure  the 
torture  any  very  great  while  longer.  He 
possessed  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman, — 
the  cravings  of  a  beast.  The  former  had 
won  him  something  of  friends  and  sympathy, 
— and  love.  The  latter  had  cost  him  all 
the  other  had  won.  For  coming  across  the 
little  graveyard  in  a  straight  line  with  the 
shadows  of  the  old  cedars,  her  arms  full  of 
the  greens  and  tender  wild  blossoms  of  the 
mountain,  was  the  one  woman  he  had  loved. 
She  had  done  her  best  to  "  reform  "  him. 
The  world  called  it  a  "  reform."  If  reform 
meant  a  new  birth,  that  was  the  proper  name 
for  it,  he  thought,  as  he  watched  her  coming 
down  the  shadow-line,  and  tried  to  think  of 
her  as  another  man's  wife  ;  this  woman  he 
loved,  and  who  had  loved  him. 

He  saw  her  stop   beside  a  little  mound, 
kneel    down,    and,  carefully    dividing   her 


of  flw  3l*T00<te.  163 

flowers,  place  the  half  of  them  upon  a  child's 
grave.  Her  face  was  wet  with  tears  when 
she  arose,  and  crossing  over  to  the  tall, 
yellow  shaft,  placed  the  remainder  of  the 
offering  at  its  base.  She  stood  a  moment, 
as  if  studying  the  odd  inscription.  And 
when  she  turned  away  he  saw  that  the  tears 
were  gone,  and  a  hopeless  patience  gave  the 
sweet  face  a  tender  beauty. 

"<0h,  Shiloh!  Shiloh!'" 

He  heard  her  repeat  the  melancholy  words 
as  she  moved  away  from  the  old  shaft,  and 
opening  the  gate  he  waited  until  she  should 
pass  out. 

«  Donald !  " 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  Alice.  You  are  going 
away  to-morrow  ;  it  is  the  last  offence.  You 
will  forgive  it  because  it  is  the  last." 

"  You  ought  not  to  f  ollow  me  in  this  way 
it  isn't  honorable.  See  !  I  have  been  to  put 
some  flowers  on  my  little  baby's  grave." 
She  glanced  back,  as  she  stood,  her  hand 


164  me     *art  of  the 


upon  the  gate,  at  the  little  flower-bedecked 
grave,  where,  two  months  before,  she  had 
buried  her  only  child. 

"  You  shared  your  treasures  with  the 
other,"  he  said,  indicating  the  tall  shaft. 

"  I  always  do,"  said  she.  "  There  is 
something  about  that  grave  that  touches 
me  with  singular  pity.  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  myself  who  is  buried  there.  I 
think  the  girl  must  have  died  of  a  broken 
heart." 

"  Have  you  never  heard  the  story  ?  "  said 
Donald.  "  I  suppose  it  might  be  called  a 
broken  heart,  although  the  doctors  gave  it 
the  more  agreeable  title  of  '  heart  disease.' 
It  is  very  well  for  the  world  that  doctors  do 
not  call  things  by  their  right  name  always. 
Now,  if  I  should  be  found  dead  to-morrow 
morning  in  my  little  room  at  Dan,  the  doctors 
would  pronounce  me  a  victim  of  '  apoplexy/ 
or  '  heart  failure.'  That  would  be  very 
generous  of  the  doctors  so  far  as  /  am  con- 


the  mote.  165 


cerned.  But  would  it  not  be  more  generous 
to  struggling  humanity  to  say  the  truth  ? 
'  This  man  died  of  delirium  tremens,  — 
killed  himself  with  whiskey.  Now  you  other 
sots  take  warning.'  ' 

"  Donald  Rives  !  "  the  sad  eyes,  full  of 
unspoken  pity,  not  unmixed  with  regret, 
sought  his. 

O 

"  Truth,"  said  Donald.  "  And  truth,  Alice, 
is  always  best.  The  world,  the  sick  moral 
world,  cannot  be  healed  with  falsehood.  But 
the  woman  sleeping  there  —  she  has  a  pretty 
story.  Will  you  wait  while  I  tell  it  —  you 
are  going  away  to-morrow." 

She  glanced  down  the  road,  dim  with  the 
twilight. 

"The  others  are  gone  on  to  Dan,  to  see 
the  moon  rise,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

"  We  will  follow  them  there  in  a  moment," 
said  Donald.  "  I  have  a  fancy  for  telling 
you  that  story." 

He  laughed,  a  nervous,  mirthless  kind  of 


166  me  low*  of  the 

laugh,  and    slipped   his   rifle   to    his    other 
hand. 

"She  had  a  lover  in  the  army,  you 
understand.  She  was  waiting  here  with 
hundreds  of  others  until  '  the  cruel  war 
should  cease.'  One  day  when  there  had 
been  a  great  battle,  a  messenger  came  to 
Beersheba,  bringing  news  for  her.  He 
brought  a  letter,  and  she  came  across  the 
little  court  there  at  Beersheba,  and  received 
it  from  the  messenger's  own  hand.  She 
tore  it  open  and  read  the  one  line  written' 
there.  Then  the  white  page  fluttered  to  the 
ground.  She  placed  her  hands  upon  her 
heart  as  if  the  bullet  had  pierced  her.  '  Oh, 
Shiloh !  Shiloh ! '  That  was  all  she  said  or 
did.  The  ball  from  old  Shiloh  did  its  work. 
The  next  day  they  buried  her  up  there  under 
the  cedars.  The  letter  had  but  one  line  : 
'  Shot  at  Shiloh,  fatally ; '  and  signed  by  the 
captain  of  the  company  who  had  promised  to 
send  news  of  the  battle.  Just  a  line ;  but 


f  *att  of  the  mote.  167 

enough  to  break  a  heart.  Hearts  break 
easily,  sweetheart." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  earnest  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

"  Do  you  think  hers  broke  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  do  not.  She  merely  went  to  him." 

"As  I  should  go  to  you  if  you  were 
to  die,  because  I  cannot  live  without 
you." 

"  Hush  !  I  am  nothing  to  you  now.  Only 
a  friend  who  loves  you,  and  would  help  you 
if  she  could,  but  sho  is  powerless." 

"  0  Alice,  do  not  say  that.  Do  not  give 
me  over  in  that  hopeless  way  to  ruin.  Do 
not  abandon  me  now." 

"  Donald,"  the  voice  was  very  low,  and 
sweet,  and — strong.  "  There  was  a  time  I 
thought  to  help  you.  I  did  my  best  and — 
failed.  It  is  too  late  now.  I  am  married. 
You,  who  could  not  put  aside  your  passion 
for  the  girl  whose  heart  was  yours,  and 
whom  you  loved  sincerely,  could  not,  as- 


168  ®|«    jtat  at  the 


suredly,  put  it  by  for  the  woman  whose  love, 
and  life,  and  duty  are  pledged  to  another. 
Yet,  you  know  I  feel  for  you.  You  know 
what  it  is  to  be  tempted,  so,  alas  !  do  I. 
Wait  !  stand  back.  There  is  this  difference. 
You  know  what  it  is  to  yield  ;  but  I  have 
that  little  mound  back  there  "  —  she  nodded 
toward  the  little  flower-decked  grave  —  "the 
dead  help  me,  the  sleeper  underneath  is  my 
strength.  If  /  were  dead  now,  I  would 
come  to  you,  and  help  you.  Do  that  which, 
living,  I  failed  in  doing.  Come,  now  ;  let 
us  go  on  and  see  the  moon  rise  over  Dan. 
The  others  have  gone  long  ago." 

They  passed  out,  and  the  little  gate  swung 
to  its  place.  The  dead  at  Beersheba  were 
left  alone  again.  Left  to  their  tranquil 
slumbers.  Tranquil?  Aye,  it  is  only  the 
living  who  are  eager  and  unhappy. 

Down  the  shadowy  road  they  passed,  those 
two  whose  lives  had  met,  and  mingled,  and 
parted  again.  Those  two  so  necessary  to 


of  iftf  Woo&tt.  169 


each  other,  and  who,  despite  the  necessity, 
must  touch  hands  and  part. 

'Tis  said  God  makes  for  every  human 
soul  a  counterpart,  a  soul-helper.  If  this  be 
so,  then  is  it  true  that  every  soul  must  find 
its  counterpart,  since  God  does  not  work  by 
half,  and  knows  no  bungling  in  His  plan. 
That  other  self  is  somewhere,  —  on  this 
earth,  or  in  some  other  sphere.  The  souls 
are  separated,  perhaps  by  death,  perhaps 
by  human  agency.  What  of  that  ?  Soul 
will  seek  soul  ;  will  find  its  counterpart  and 
perform  its  work,  its  own  half  share,  though 
death  and  vast  eternity  should  roll  between. 

They  passed  on,  those  two,  wishing  for 
and  needing  each  the  other.  Wishing  until 
God  heard,  and  made  the  wish  a  prayer, 
and  answered  it,  in  His  own  time  "and 
manner. 

At  the  crossing  of  the  roads  where  one 
breaks  off  to  Dan,  the  mountain  preacher's 
little  cabin  stood  before  them.  Nothing, 


170  me     *art  of 


and  yet  it  had  a  bearing  on  their  lives.  On 
his,  at  all  events. 

Before  the  door,  leaning  upon  the  little 
low  gate,  an  old  man  with  white  hair  and 
beard  was  watching  the  gambols  of  two 
children  playing  with  a  large  dog.  The 
cabin,  old  and  weatherworn,  the  man,  the 
tumble-down  appearance  of  things  generally, 
formed  a  strange  contrast  with  the  mag- 
nificence of  nature  visible  all  around.  To 
Donald,  with  his  southern  ideas  of  ease  and 
elegance,  there  was  something  repulsive 
in  the  scene.  But  the  woman  was  more 
charitable. 

"  Good  evening,  parson,"  she  called,  "  we 
are  going  over  to  Dan  to  watch  the  moon 
rise." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "An' 
hadn't  ye  better  leave  the  gun,  sir  ?  There's 
no  use  luggin'  that  to  Dan.  An'  ye'll  find 
it  here  'ginst  you  come  back." 

"  Why,  we're  going  back  another  route," 


of  th*  W00to.  171 

they  told  him;  not  dreaming  what  that 
route  would  be. 

"  You  have  a  goodly  country,  parson,'* 
said  Donald,  "  and  so  near  heaven  one 
ought  to  find  peace  here." 

"  It  be  not  plentiful,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  An'  man  be  born  to  trouble  as  the  sparks 
go  up'ard.  But  all  be  bretherin,  by  the 
grace  o'  God,  an'  bound  alike  for  Canaan." 

They  passed  on,  bearing  the  old  man's 
meaning  in  their  hearts.  All  bound  upon 
one  common  road  for  Canaan. 

Oh,  Israel !  Israel !  the  wandering  in  the 
wilderness  goes  on.  The  Promised  Land 
still  lies  ahead,  and  wanderers  in  earth's 
wilderness  still  seek  it,  panting  and  dying, 
with  none  to  strike  a  rock  in  Horeb. 

The  Promised  Land !  what  glimpses  of 
that  glorious  country  are  vouchsafed,  mere 
glimpses,  from  those  rugged  heights,  such 
as  were  granted  him,  who,  weary  with  his 
wanderings,  sought  Pisgah's  top  to  die. 


172  ^e  i*art  of  t 

Sometimes,  when  the  mists  are  lifted  and 
the  sun  shines  through  the  rifted  clouds, 
what  dreams,  what  visions,  what  communion 
with  those  whom  the  angels  met  upon  the 
mountain !  They  thought  upon  it,  those 
two,  as  they  passed  on  to  Dan. 

To  Dan,  through  the  broad  gate  artisti- 
cally set  with  palings  of  green  and  white. 
Under  the  sweet  old  cedars  deep  down  into 
the  heart  of  the  woods,  with  the  solemn 
mountains  rising,  grim  and  mysterious,  in 
the  twilight.  Down  the  great  bluff  where 
the  tinkle  of  falling  water  tells  of  the  spring 
hidden  in  the  dim  wood's  shadowy  heart. 
The  golden  arrows  of  sunset  are  plucked  one 
by  one  by  the  shadow-hands  of  the  twilight 
hidden  in  the  haunted  hemlocks.  One  star 
rises  above  the  trees  and  peeps  down  to  find 
itself  quivering  in  the  dusky  pool.  A  little 
bird  flits  by  with  an  evening  hymn  flutter- 
ing in  its  throat. 

They  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  and 


ot  the  W00ite.  173 

seated  themselves  upon  a  fallen  tree,  the 
rifle  resting,  the  stock  upon  the  ground,  the 
muzzle  against  the  tree,  between  them. 

Between  them,  the  loaded  rifle.  She  her- 
self had  placed  it  there.  They  had  scarcely 
spoken,  but  words  are  weak;  feeling  is 
strong — and  silent.  His  heart  was  break- 
ing; could  words  help  that?  It  was  she 
who  spoke  at  last,  nestling  closer  to  him  a 
moment,  then  quickly  drawing  back.  Her 
hand  had  touched  the  iron  muzzle  of  the 
gun — it  was  cold,  and  it  reminded  her. 
She  drew  her  hands  together  and  folded 
them,  palm  to  palm,  between  her  knees,  and 
held  them  there,  lest  the  sight  of  his  agony 
drag  them  from  duty  and  from  honor.  She 
could  not  bear  to  look  at  him,  she  could  only 
speak  to  him,  with  her  eyes  turned  away  to- 
ward the  distant  mountains. 

"Donald,"  her  voice  was  low  and  very 
steady,  "  there  are  so  many  mistakes  made, 
dear,  and  my  marriage  was  one  of  them. 


174  m*  leart  of  tti* 

But,  the  blunder  having  been  committed,  I 
must  abide  by  it.  And  who  knows  if,  after 
all,  it  be  a  mistake  ?  Who  can  understand, 
and  who  dares  judge?  But  right  cannot 
grow  from  wrong.  We  part.  But  I  shall 
not  leave  you,  Donald.  Here  in  the  heart 
of  the  woods " 

"  Don't !  "  he  lifted  his  face,  white  with 
agony.  "  Your  suffering  can  but  increase 
mine.  Go  back,  dear,  and  forget.  Our 
paths  crossed  in  vain,  in  vain.  Go  back, 
and  leave  me  to  my  lonely  struggles.  I 
shall  miss  you,  oh,  my  beloved, — "  the 
words  choked  him,  "  forget,  forget — " 

"  Never !  "  again  she  moved  toward  him, 
again  drew  back.  The  iron  muzzle  had 
touched  her  shoulder,  warningly.  She  still 
held  her  hands  fast  clasped  between  her 
knees.  Suddenly  she  loosed  them ;  opened 
them,  looked  at  them ;  so  frail,  so  small, 
so  delicately  womanly  as  they  were. 
He,  too,  saw  them,  the  dear  hands,  and 


at  tte  Woote.  175 

made  a  motion  to  clasp  them,  restrained 
himself,  and  groaned.  She  understood,  and 
her  whole  soul  responded.  The  old  calm  was 
gone ;  the  wife  forgotten.  It  was  only  the 
woman  that  spoke  as  she  slipped  from  her 
place  beside  him,  to  the  ground  at  his 
feet ;  and  extended  the  poor  hands  toward 
him. 

"Donald,  0  Donald!"  she  sobbed. 
"  Look  at  my  hands.  How  frail  they  are, 
and  weak,  and  white,  and  dean.  Aye,  they 
are  clean,  Donald.  Take  them  in  your 
own  ;  hold  them  fast  one  moment,  for  they 
are  worthy.  But  oh,  my  beloved,  if  they 
falter  or  go  wrong,  those  little  hands,  who 
would  pity  their  polluted  owner  ?  Not  you, 
oh,  not  you.  I  know  the  sequel  to  such 
madness.  Help  me  to  keep  them  clean. 
Help  me — oh,  help  me  !  " 

She  lifted  them  pleadingly,  the  tears  rain- 
ing down  her  cheeks.  She,  the  strong,  the 
noble,  appealing  to  him.  In  that  moment 


176  me  !*art  of  the 

she  became  a  saint,  a  being  to  be  worshipped 
afar  off,  like  God. 

"  Help  me  !  "  She  appealed  to  him,  to 
his  manhood  which  he  had  supposed  dead  so 
long  the  hollow  corpse  would  scarcely  hear 
the  judgment  trump. 

Her  body  swayed  to  and  fro  with  the 
terrible  struggle.  Aye,  she  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  tempted.  She  who  would  have 
died  for  that  poor  drunkard's  peace.  But 
that  little  mound — that  little  child's  grave 
on  the  hill — u  Help  me  !  "  She  reeled  for- 
ward and  he  sprang  to  clasp  her.  The  rifle 
slipped  its  place  against  the  log ;  but  it  was 
between  them  still ;  the  iron  muzzle  pointed 
at  her  heart.  There  was  a  flash,  a  sharp  re- 
port, and  she  fell,  just  missing  the  arms  ex- 
tended to  receive  her. 

"  0  my  God ! "  the  cry  broke  from  him,  a 
wild  shriek,  torn  from  his  inmost  heart. 
"  0  my  God  !  my  God !  I  have  killed  her. 
Alice  !  oh,  speak  to  me  !  speak  to  me  before 


of  the  Wo*&».  177 

my  brain  goes  mad."  He  had  dropped  be- 
side her,  on  his  knees,  and  drawn  the  poor 
face  to  his  bosom.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  nestled  there,  closer  to  his  heart. 
There  was  no  iron  muzzle  between  them 
now.  She  smiled,  and  whispered,  softly  : — 

"  In  the  heart  of  the  woods.  0  Love  ;  0 
Love ! " 

And  seeing  that  he  understood,  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  bosom,  gasped  once,  and 
the  little  hands  were  safe.  They  would 
never  "  go  wrong  "  now,  never.  Even  love, 
which  tempts  the  strongest  into  sin,  could 
never  harm  them  now,  those  little  dead 
hands. 

"  In  the  heart  of  the  woods."  It  was 
there  they  buried  her,  beside  that  broken- 
hearted one  whose  life  went  with  the  tidings 
from  old  Shiloh,  in  the  little  mountain  grave- 
yard in  the  woods  'twixt  Dan  and  Beer- 
sheba. 

As   for    him,  her  murderer,    they    said, 

12 


178  ftto     *att  0f  tte 


"  the  accident  quite  drove  him  mad."  Per- 
haps it  did  ;  he  thought  so,  often  ;  only  that 
he  never  called  it  by  the  name  of  accident. 

"  It  was  God's  plan  for  helping  me,"  he 
told  himself  during  those  slow  hours  of  tor- 
ture that  followed.  There  were  days  and 
weeks  when  the  very  mention  of  the  place 
would  tear  his  soul.  Then  the  old  craving 
returned.  Drink;  he  could  forget,  drown 
it  all  if  only  he  could  return  to  the  old 
way  of  forgetting.  But  something  held 
him  back.  What  was  it  ?  God  ?  No,  no. 
God  did  not  care  for  such  as  he,  he  told 
himself.  He  was  alone  ;  alone  forever  now. 
One  night  there  was  a  storm,  the  cedars 
were  lashed  and  broken,  and  the  windows 
rattled  with  the  fury  of  the  wind.  The  rain 
beat  against  the  roof  in  torrents.  The 
night  was  wild,  as  he  was.  Oh  !  he,  too, 
could  tear,  and  howl,  and  shriek.  Tear  up 
the  very  earth,  he  thought,  if  only  he  let 
his  demon  loose. 


peart  of  tbt  Woote.  179 

He  arose  and  threw  on  his  clothes.  He 
wanted  whiskey ;  he  was  tired  of  the 
struggle,  the  madness,  the  despair.  A  mile 
beyond  there  was  a  still,  an  illicit  concern 
worked  only  at  night.  He  meant  to  find  it. 
His  brain  was  giving  way,  indeed.  Had 
already  given  way,  he  thought,  as  he  listened  to 
the  wind  calling  him,  the  storm  luring  him  on 
to  destruction.  The  very  lightning  beckoned 
him  to  "come  and  be  healed."  Healed? 
Aye,  he  knew  what  it  was  that  healed  the 
agonies  of  mind  that  physics  could  not 
reach.  He  knew,  he  knew.  He  had  been 
a  fool  to  think  he  would  forego  this  healing. 
He  laughed  as  he  tore  open  the  door  and 
stepped  out  into  the  night.  The  cool  rain 
struck  upon  his  burning  brow  as  he  plunged 
forward  into  the  arms  of  the  darkness.  He 
had  gone  but  two  steps  when  the  fever  that 
had  mounted  to  his  brain  began  to  cool. 
And  the  wind — he  paused.  Was  it  speak- 
ing to  him,  that  wild,  midnight  wind? 


180  ®te  !*art  ot  i 

"  '  In  the  heart  of  the  woods.     0  Love,  0 
Love!'" 

There  was  a  shimmery  glister  of  lightning 
among  the  shadowy  growth.  Was  it  a 
figure,  the  form  of  a  woman  beckoning  him, 
guiding  him  ?  He  turned  away  from  the 
midnight  still,  and  followed  that  shimmery 
light,  straight  to  the  little  graveyard  in  the 
woods,  and  fell  across  the  little  new  mound 
there,  and  sobbed  like  a  child  that  has 
rebelled  and  yielded.  A  presence  breathed 
among  the  shadows ;  a  presence  that  crept 
to  his  bosom  when  he  opened  his  arms, 
his  face  still  pressed  against  the  soft,  new 
sod.  A  strange,  sweet  peace  came  to  him, 
such  as  he  had  never  felt  before,  fill- 
ing him  with  restful,  chastened,  and  ex- 
quisite sadness.  The  storm  passed  by  after 
awhile,  and  the  rain  fell  softly — as  the  dew 
falls  on  flowers.  And  he  arose  and  went 
home,  with  the  chastened  peace  upon  him, 
and  the  old  passionate  pain  gone  forever. 


of  th*  ^00^.  181 


But  as  the  summers  drifted  by,  year  after 
year,  he  returned.  He  became  a  famil- 
iar comer  to  the  humble  mountain  folk, 
where  summer  twilight  times  they  saw  him 
leaning  on  the  parson's  little  gate,  convers- 
ing with  the  old  man  of  the  "  Promised 
Land  "  toward  which,  as  "  brethren,"  they 
were  travelling.  Sometimes  they  talked  of 
the  blessed  dead  —  the  dear,  dear  dead  who 
are  permitted  to  return  to  give  help  to  their 
loved  ones. 

Aye,  he  believes  it,  knows  it,  for  the  old 
temptation  assails  him  no  more  forever. 
That  is  enough  to  know. 

And  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  in  the  dewy 
twilight,  or  at  the  solemn  midnight,  she 
comes  to  meet  him,  unseen  but  felt,  and 
walks  with  him  again  along  the  way  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba.  He  holds  communion 
with  her  there,  and  is  satisfied  and  strength- 
ened. 

God  knows,  God  knows  if  it  be  true,  she 


182  ^e  l*a*t  of  tte 

meets  him  there.  But  life  is  no  longer 
agony  and  struggle  with  him.  And  often 
when  he  starts  upon  his  lonely  walks,  he 
hears  the  wind  pass  through  the  ragged 
cedars  with  a  low,  tremulous  soughing  and 
bends  his  ear  to  listen.  "  In  the  heart  of 
the  woods,  0  Love,  0  Love." 

And  he  understands  at  last  how  to  those 
passed  on  is  vouchsafed  a  power  denied  the 
human  helper,  and  that  she  who  would  have 
been  his  guide  and  comforter  now  gave  him 
better  guardianship — a  watchful  and  a  holy 
spirit. 

Meanwhile,  the  dead  rest  well. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  THE  CORNER 
GROCERY. 


THE  boss  had  not  returned ;  in  truth,  the 
probability  was  the  boss  would  not  return 
that  night,  inasmuch  as  he  had  generously 
offered  the  bookkeeper,  who  was  clerk  as 
well,  permisson  to  go  to  his  supper  first. 
True,  the  subordinate  had  declined  the 
honor ;  it  being  Christmas  eve,  Saturday 
night,  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  new  year, 
and  the  books  of  the  establishment  sadly  in 
need  of  posting.  The  subordinate  did  not 
relish  the  prospect  of  a  lonely  Christmas, 
Sunday  at  that,  on  the  tall  stool  behind  the 
big  desk  among  the  cobwebs,  mackerel  and 
onion  scents,  sardine  boxes,  nail  kegs,  coils 

of  barbed  wire,  soap-smelling  cotton  sturfs, 

183 


184    4Eliri0tm&0  (&vt  at  the 


molasses  and  coal  oil.  So  he  gave  up  his 
supper,  and  the  half-hour  with  the  cripple 
(he  sighed  for  the  half-hour  more  than  for 
the  supper),  contented  himself  with  a  hite  of 
cheese  and  a  cracker,  which  he  forthwith 
entered  upon  the  book,  as  he  had  been 
ordered  to  do,  in  a  clear,  clerical  hand  : 
"  To  S.  Riley,  cheese  and  crackers,  .07." 
He  wrote  it  in  his  best  hand,  to  cover  up  the 
smallness  of  it,  perhaps,  for  it  was  a  very 
small  entry.  The  subordinate's  face  wore 
something  very  like  a  sneer  as  he  made  it, 
although  he  had  the  consolation  of  knowing 
the  smallness  of  the  transaction  was  upon 
the  side  of  the  creditor. 

It  was  a  general  kind  of  a  store,  was  the 
grocery  on  the  corner;  a  little  out  of  the 
way,  beyond  the  regular  beat  of  the  cny 
folk,  but  convenient  to  the  people  of  the 
suburbs.  It  wasn't  a  mammoth  concern, 
although  its  stock  was  varied.  The  boss, 
the  real  owner  of  the  establishment,  and 


Christmas  (gvt  at  tte  C0rtw  (&mtv%.    185 

Riley,  the  bookkeeper,  ran  it,  without  other 
help  than  that  of  black  Ben,  the  porter. 

Biley  was  both  bookkeeper,  clerk,  and,  he 
sometimes  suspected,  general  scapegoat  to 
the  proprietor.  To-night  he  was  left  to 
attend  to  everything,  for  he  knew  the  boss 
would  not  leave  his  warm  hearth  to  trudge 
back  through  the  snow  to  the  little  corner 
grocery  that  night.  His  daughter  had  come 
for  him  in  a  sleigh,  and  had  carried  him  off, 
amid  warm  furs  and  the  jingle  of  sleigh-bells, 
to  a  cheery  Christmas  eve  with  his  family. 

The  bookkeeper  sighed  as  he  munched  his 
cheese.  There  was  a  little  lame  girl  away 
up  in  the  attic  on  Water  Street  that  Riley 
called  home.  She  would  hear  the  sleisrh- 

O 

bells  go  by  and  peep  down  from  her  dingy 
little  window,  and  clap  her  hands,  and  wish 
"  daddy  would  come  home  for  Christmas, 
too."  There  wasn't  any  mother  up  there  in 
the  attic  ;  for  out  in  the  cemetery,  in  the 
portion  allotted  to  the  common  people,  the 


186    (&M&tm#  <&ve  at  tte  (Konwr 

snow  was  falling  softly  on  the  little  mother's 
grave. 

The  clerk  ate  his  cheese  in  silence.  Sud- 
denly he  dropped  his  fist  upon  the  desk  heav- 
ily. "  Sometimes  I  wish  she  was  out  there 
with  her  mother,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes 
I  wish  it,  'specially  at  Christmas  times.  Let 
me  see :  she  is  ten  years  old  to-night ;  we 
called  her  our  '  Christmas  gift,'  and  never 
a  step  have  the  little  feet  taken.  Poor 
Julie  !  poor  little  Christmas  snowbird  !  poor 
little  Christmas  sparrow  !  I  always  think  of 
her  somehow  when  the  boys  go  by  in  the 
holidays  with  a  string  of  dead  birds  they've 
shot.  Poor  little  daughter !  " 

He  sighed,  and  took  up  his  pen  ;  it  was  a 
busy  season.  A  step  caused  him  to  look  up ; 
then  he  arose  and  went  to  wait  upon  a  cus- 
tomer. It  was  a  woman,  and  Riley  saw  that 
she  had  been  weeping. 

"  Howdy  do,  Mrs.  Elkins,"  he  said. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you? " 


(£vt  at  the  (Some*  Sroeerij.     187 

"  I  want  to  know  the  price  of  potatoes, 
Mr.  Riley,"  she  replied. 

"  Sixty  cents  a  bushel.  How  is  the  little 
boy  to-night,  Mrs.  Elkins  ?  Is  he  getting 
well  for  Christmas  ?  " 

16  Yes,"  said  the  woman.  "  He's  a'ready 
well;  well  an'  happy.  I  fetched  him  to  the 
graveyard  this  mornin'." 

Riley  dropped  the  potato  he  had  taken 
from  the  tub,  and  looked  up  to  see  the 
woman's  lip  quiver. 

"  What's  the  price  o'  them  potatoes  ?  " 

"  Fifteen  cents  a  peck." 

She  laid  a  silver  dime  upon  the  counter. 

"  Gimme  them  many,"  she  said ;  "  there's 
four  more  lef  to  feed  besides  the  dead  one, 
though,"  she  added  quickly,  "  I — ain't  be- 
grudgin'  of  'em  victuals." 

Riley  measured  a  peck  of  the  potatoes, 
and  emptied  them  into  her  basket.  Four 
mouths  besides  her  own,  and  one  little  starve- 
ling left  that  day,  "  that  blessed  Christmas 


188    ©hngtmag  (&vt  at  th* 

eve/'  in  the  graveyard.  He  found  himself 
hoping,  as  he  went  back  to  the  ledger, 
that  they  had  huried  the  baby  near  his  own 
dead.  The  big  graveyard  wouldn't  feel  so 
desolate,  so  weirdly  lonesome,  as  he  thought 
it  must,  to  the  dead  baby  if  the  little  child- 
mother,  his  young  wife,  could  find  it  out 
there  among  all  that  array  of  the  common 
dead.  "  To  S.  Riley,  1-3  of  peck  of  po- 
tatoes, .05."  The  blue  blotter  had  copied,  or 
absorbed  the  entry,  made  it  double,  as  if  the 
debt  had  already  begun  to  draw  interest. 
The  clerk,  however,  had  not  noticed  the 
blotter ;  other  customers  came  in  and  claimed 
his  attention.  They  were  impatient,  too. 
It  was  a  very  busy  night,  and  the  books,  he 
feared,  would  not  be  balanced  after  all.  It 
was  shabby,  downright  mean,  of  the  boss 
not  to  come  back  at  a  time  like  this. 

The  new  customer  was  old  man  Murdock 
from  across  the  river,  the  suburbs.  He  had 
once  been  rich,  owned  a  house  up  town,  and 


at  the  ®0mw  gtatf.    189 


belonged  to  the  aristocracy.  He  had  pos- 
sessed the  appurtenances  to  wealth,  such  as 
influence,  leisure,  at  one  time.  He  still  was 
a  gentleman,  since  nature,  not  circumstance, 
had  had  the  care  of  that.  Every  movement, 
every  word,  the  very  set  of  the  threadbare 
broadcloth,  spoke  the  proud,  the  "  well- 
raised  "  gentleman  of  the  Old-South  time. 
"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Riley,"  he  said,  when 
the  clerk  stumbled  down  from  his  perch. 
The  male  customers  —  they  learned  it  from. 
the  boss,  doubtless  —  called  him  "Riley." 
They  generally  said,  "  Hello,  Riley." 
But  the  old  Southerner  was  neither  rude 
nor  so  familiar.  He  said,  "Good-evening, 
Mr.  Riley,"  much  the  same  as  he  would  have 
said  to  the  president,  "  Good-evening, 
Mr.  -  "  ;  and  he  touched  his  long,  white, 
scholarly-looking  finger  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat,  though  the  hat  was  not  lifted.  Riley 
said,  "  Good  evening  "  back  again,  and 
wanted  to  know  "  what  Mr.  Murdock  would 


190    ®to;i0twa0  (&vt  at  the  (ttamn 

look  at."  He  would  have  put  the  question 
in  the  same  way  had  Mr.  Murdock  still  pos- 
sessed his  thousands ;  and  he  would  have  put 
it  no  less  respectfully  had  the  gentleman  of 
fallen  fortunes  come  a-begging.  There  is 
that  about  a  gentleman  commands  respect ; 
great  Nature  willed  it  so. 

The  customer  was  not  hurried ;  he  re- 
marked upon  the  weather,  and  thawed  him- 
self before  the  big  stove  (he  never  once 
broached  the  subject  of  Christmas,  nor  be- 
came at  all  familiar),  pitied  the  homeless 
such  a  night,  hoped  it  would  freeze  out 
the  tariff  upon  wool ;  then  he  asked,  care- 
lessly, as  men  of  leisure  might,  "  What  is 
the  price  of  bacon,  Mr.  Biley  ? — by  the 
hundred." 

"  Eight  dollars  a  hundred,  Mr.  Murdock," 
said  Biley. 

The  ex-millionaire  slipped  his  white 
fore-finger  into  his  vest  pocket.  After  a 
moment's  silence,  during  which  Riley  knew 


at  the  (&OWM  (&mev.    191 


the  proud  old  heart  was  breaking,  though 
the  calm  face  gave  no  sign  of  the  struggle, 
"  Put  me  up  a  dime's  worth  of  the  bacon,  if 
you  please." 

Riley  obeyed  silently  ;  he  would  no  more 
have  presumed  to  cover  up  the  pathos  of 
the  proceeding  by  talk  than  he  would  have 
thought  of  offering  a  penny,  in  charity,  to 
the  mayor  in  the  city.  He  put  the  transac- 
tion as  purely  upon  a  business  footing  as  if 
the  customer  had  ordered  a  round  ton  of 
something.  He  wrapped  the  meat  in  a 
sheet  of  brown  paper,  and  received  the 
stately  "  Good  evening,  sir,"  saw  the  white 
finger  touch  the  hat  brim  as  the  customer 
passed  out  into  the  snow,  then  climbed  back 
to  his  perch,  thinking,  as  he  did  so,  that  of 
all  poverty  the  poverty  that  follows  fallen 
fortunes  must  be  the  very  hardest  to  endure. 
There  is  the  battle  against  old  longings, 
long-indulged  luxuries,  past  pleasures,  faded 
grandeurs,  dead  dreams,  living  sneers,  and 


192    (SMjsJtmatf  (&n  at  ike 

pride,  that  indomitable  blessing,  or  curse, 
that  never,  never  dies.  God  pity  those  poor 
who  have  seen  better  days ! 

"  To  8.  JRiley,  2  Ibs.  bacon,  at  12  1-2 
cts.,  .25."  The  book  bore  another  entry. 
Riley  put  the  blotter  over  it  very  quickly ; 
he  had  a  fancy  the  late  customer  was  look- 
ing over  his  shoulder.  He  shouldn't  like 
the  old  gentleman  to  see  that  entry,  not  by 
any  means. 

"  Chris'mus  gif ' ,  marster." 

Another  customer  had  entered.  Riley 
closed  the  big  ledger,  and  thrust  it  into  the 
safe.  The  day-book  would  take  up  the 
balance  of  the  evening. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Aunt  Angie  ?  " 
he  said,  going  behind  the  counter  to  wait 
upon  the  old  colored  woman,  who  had  passed 
the  compliments  of  the  season  after  the  old 
slave  custom. 

She  laughed,  albeit  her  clothing  was  in 
rags,  and  the  thin  shawl  gathered  about  her 


to  at  the  (Earner  6rormj.    193 

shoulders  bore  patches  in  blue  and  yellow 
and  white. 

"  I  cotched  yer  Chris'mus  gif ',  good  mar- 
ster;  yer  knows  I  did." 

"  But  you're  a  little  early,  Aunt  Angie," 
said  the  clerk ;  "  this  is  only  Christmas 
eve." 

"  Aw,  git  out,  marster.  De  ole  nigger 
got  ter  cook  all  day  ter-morrer — big  Chris-' 
mus  dinner  fur  de  whi'  folks.  No  res'  fur 
de  ole  nigger,  not  even  et  Chris'mus.  Bress 
de  Lord,  it  ain'  come  but  onc't  a  year." 

She  laughed  again,  but  under  the  strange 
merriment  Riley  detected  the  weariness  that 
was  thankful;  aye,  that  thanked  God  that 
Christmas,  the  holiday  of  the  Christ-child, 
came  "but  once  a  year." 

Christmas !  Christmas !  old  season  of 
mirth  and  misery  !  Who  really  enjoys  it, 
after  all  ?  Lazarus  in  the  gutter,  or  Dives 
among  his  coffers  ? 

The  clerk  ran  his  eye  along  the  counters, 
13 


194    (KMtttmw  (&vt  at 


the  shelves,  and  even  took  in  the  big  barrels, 
pushed  back,  in  the  rear,  out  of  the  way. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Angie,  what  shall  the  *  gift  ' 
be?" 

He  could  see  the  bare  toes  where  her 
torn  old  shoes  fell  away  from  the  stocking- 
less  feet.  She  needed  shoes  ;  he  was  about 
to  go  for  a  pair  when  she  stopped  him  by  a 
gesture. 

"  Dem  ar  things,  marster,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  a  string  of  masks  —  gaudy,  hideous 
things,  festooned  from  the  ceiling.  "  I 
wants  one  o'  dem  ar.  De  chillun  '11  lack 
dat  sho." 

He  allowed  her  to  select  one  ;  it  was  the 
face  of  a  king,  fat,  jovial,  white.  She  en- 
joyed it  like  a  child.  Then,  unwrapping  a 
bit  of  soiled  muslin,  she  took  from  it  three 
pieces  of  silver,  three  bright,  precious  dol- 
lars. They  represented  precisely  three- 
fourths  of  her  month's  wages.  She  pur- 
chased a  tin  horn  "  fur  de  baby,  honey  "  ;  a 


(&ve  at  the  (Sotuct  (Sracmj.    195 

candy  sheep  "  fur  Ephum,  de  naix  un  " ;  a 
string  of  yellow  beads  "fur  Jinny.  Dat 
yaller  gal  am'  got  no  reason-mint  she  am 
dat  set  on  habin'  dem  beads "  ;  a  plug  of 
tobacco  "fur  de  old  man's  Chris'mus  " ;  a 
jew's-harp  "fur  Sam;  dat  chile  gwi' 1'arn 
music,  he  am  "  ;  a  doll  "  fur  Lill  Ria ;  she's 
de  po'ly  one,  Lill  Ria  am " ;  and  last,  "  a 
dust  ob  corn  meal  ter  make  a  hoe-cake  fur 
dey-all's  Chris'mus  dinner." 

She  had  been  lavish,  poor  beggar ;  with- 
out stint  she  had  given  her  all  ;  foolishly, 
perhaps,  but  she  apologized  in  full  for  the 
folly  :  "  It  am  Chris'mus,  marster." 

Aye,  Christmas  !  wear  your  masks,  poor 
souls ;  fancy  that  you  are  kings,  kings. 
Dream  that  pain  is  a  myth  and  poverty  a 
joke.  Make  grief  a  phantom.  Set  red  folly 
in  the  seat  of  grim  doubt,  pay  your  devoirs 
one  day  !  To-morrow  the  curtain  rises  on 
the  old  scene ;  the  wheels  grind  on ;  the 
chariots  of  the  rich  roll  by,  and  your  throat 


196    (HMistmasi  (&vt  at  ite  fetter 


is  choked  with  their  dust  ;  your  day  is  over. 

The  clerk  made  his  entry  in  the  day-book, 
"  To  S.  Riley,  one  mask,.  20,"  before  he 
waited  upon  three  newsboys  who  were  tap- 
ping the  floor  with  their  boot  heels,  just  in 
front  of  the  counter. 

The  largest  of  the  trio  took  the  role  of 
spokesman  :  — 

"  I  want  a  pack  o'  firecrackers,  Mister  ; 
an'  Jim  wants  one,  an'  so  does  Harry.  Can't 
we  have  'em  all  for  ten  cents  ?  " 

The  clerk  thrust  his  pen  behind  his  ear. 

"  They  are  five  cents  a  pack,"  he  said. 

"  Can't  you  come  down  on  three  packs  ? 
They  do  up  town,  an'  we  ain't  got  another 
nickel." 

Riley  read  the  keen  interest  of  the  trans- 
action in  the  faces  before  him.  But  he  had 
orders.  "  Couldn't  do  it,  boys,  sorry." 

"  Well,  then,"  —  but  a  half  sigh  said  it 
wasn't  "  well,"  —  "  give  us  gum.  We  can 
divide  that  up  anyhows." 


1&n  at  tte  (&OKMV  fettttj.    197 


It  was  a  poor  compromise  —  a  very  poor 
compromise.  The  face,  the  very  voice,  of 
the  little  beggar  expressed  contempt.  Biley 
hesitated.  "  Pshaw  !  "  said  he,  "  Christmas 
without  a  racket  is  just  no  Christmas  to  a 
boy.  I  know,  for  I've  been  a  boy,  too. 
And  it  only  comes  once  a  year.  Here,  boys, 
take  the  three  packs  for  ten  cents,  and  run 
along  and  enjoy  yourselves." 

And  as  they  scampered  out,  he  sighed, 
thinking  of  two  poor  little  feet  that  could 
never  throw  off  their  weight  and  run,  as 
only  childhood  runs,  not  even  at  the  Christ- 
mas time. 

"  To  S.  Riley,  Ipack  of  firecrackers,  .05." 

Then  it  was  the  clerk  took  himself  to  task. 
He  was  a  poor  man  on  a  small  salary.  He 
had  a  little  girl  to  look  after,  a  cripple,  who 
would  never  be  able  to  provide  for  herself, 
and  for  whom,  in  consequence,  some  one  else 
must  provide.  She  would  expect  a  little 
something  for  Christmas,  too.  And  the  good 


198    ®Jttisitmai3!  <&m  at 


neighbor  in  the  attic  who  kept  an  eye  on  the 
little  one  while  Biley  was  at  work  —  he  must 
remember  her.  It  was  so  pleasant  to  give  he 
wondered  how  a  man  with  a  full  pocket  must 
feel  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  suffer- 
ing. God  !  if  he  could  feel  so  once  !  just 
once  have  his  pockets  full  !  But  he  would 
never  be  rich  j  the  boss  had  told  him  so  often  : 
he  didn't  know  the  value  of  a  dollar.  The 
head  of  the  establishment  would  think  so, 
verily,  when  he  glanced  over  the  night's 
entries  in  the  day-book. 

"  Oh,  well,  Christmas  comes  but  once  a 
year  !  "  he  said,  smiling,  as  he  adopted  the 
universal  excuse. 

Some  one  came  in  and  he  went  forward 
again. 

"  No,  he  didn't  keep  liquor  ;  he  was  out- 
side the  corporation  line  and  came  under  the 
four-mile  restriction." 

"Just  a  Chris'mus  toddy,"  said  the  cus- 
tomer that  might  have  been.  "  Don'  drink 


at  ike  (&tmwc  <&mtt.    199 


reg'lar.  Sober's  anybody  all  th'  year,  cep  — 
Chris'mus.  Chris'mus  don't  come  —  don't 
come  but  once  —  year." 

He  staggered  out,  and  Riley  stepped  to 
the  door  to  watch  him  reel  safely  beyond 
the  boss's  big  glass  window. 

There  was  another  figure  occupying  the 
sheltered  nook  about  the  window.  Riley  dis- 
covered the  pale,  pinched  little  face  pressed 
against  the  pane  before  he  opened  the  door. 
The  little  waif  was  so  utterly  lost  in  wonder 
of  the  Christmas  display  set  forth  behind  the 
big  panes,  that  he  did  not  hear  the  door 
open  or  know  that  he  was  observed  until  the 
clerk's  voice  recalled  his  wandering  senses. 

"  See  here,  sonny,  you  are  marring  the 
glass  with  your  breath.  There  will  be  ice 
on  that  pane  in  less  than  ten  minutes." 

The  culprit  started,  and  almost  lost  his 
balance  as  he  grasped  at  a  little  wooden 
crutch  that  slipped  from  his  numb  fingers  and 
rolled  down  upon  the  pavement. 


200    (&M$tm$  <&ve  at 


"  Hello  !  "  The  clerk  stepped  out  into 
the  night  and  rescued  the  poor  prop. 

Humanity  !  Humanity  !  When  all  is 
told,  thy  great  heart  still  is  master. 

"  Go  in  there,"  the  clerk  pointed  to  the 
door,  "  and  warm  yourself  at  the  fire.  It  is 
Christmas  ;  all  the  world  should  be  warm  at 
Christmas." 

The  waif  said  nothing  ;  it  was  enough  to 
creep  near  to  the  great  stove  and  watch  the 
Christmas  display  from  his  warm,  safe  corner. 

"There's  that  in  the  sound  of  a  child's 
crutch  strikes  away  down  to  my  boots,"  the 
clerk  told  himself  as  he  made  an  entry  after 
the  boy  had  left  the  store.  "  Whenever  I 
hear  one  I  -  Hello  !  what  is  it,  sissy  ?  " 

A  little  girl  stood  at  the  counter.  A  flaxen- 
haired,  blue-eyed  little  maiden  ;  alone,  at 
night,  and  beautiful.  Growing  up  for  what  ? 

Crippled  feet,  at  all  events,  are  not  swift 
to  run  astray.  The  clerk  sighed.  The  Christ- 
mas eve  was  full  of  shadows  ;  shadows  that 


at  the  $<mtw  $r0«r.    201 


would  be  lost  in  the  garish  day  of  the  mor- 
row. He  leaned  upon  the  counter.  "  What 
do  you  want,  little  one  ?  " 

"  Bread." 

Only  a  beggar  understands  that  trick  of 
asking  simple  bread.  Ah,  well!  Christ- 
mas must  have  its  starvelings,  too  !  The  big 
blotter  lingered  upon  the  last  entry.  And 
when  he  did  remove  it  to  go  and  wait  upon 
some  new  customers  he  quieted  the  voice  of 
prudence  with  the  reflection  that  his  own 
wee  one  might  stand  at  a  bread  counter  some 
pitiless  Christmas  eve,  and  this  loaf,  sent  upon 
the  waters  of  mercy,  might  come  floating 
back  ;  who  could  tell  since,  —  and  the  clerk 
smiled,  — 

"  '  The  world  goes  'round  and  'round  ; 
Some  go  up,  and  some  go  down?  " 

The  counter  was  crowded  ;  it  was  nearing 
the  hour  for  closing,  and  business  was  grow- 
ing brisk.  And  some  of  the  customers  were 
provokingly  slow,  some  of  the  poorer  ones 


202    (ghn&tmw  <&ve  at  ib* 

keeping  the  richer  ones  waiting.  It  isn't 
difficult  to  buy  when  there  is  no  fear  of  the 
funds  running  short.  There  was  one  who 
bought  oysters,  fruit,  and  macaroni,  ten  dol- 
lars, all  told,  in  less  than  half  the  time  another 
was  dividing  twenty-five  cents  into  a  possible 
purchase  of  a  bit  of  cheese,  a  strip  of  bacon, 
and  a  handful  of  dry  beans.  And  old  Mrs. 
Mottles,  the  shop-girls'  landlady  at  the  big 
yellow  tenement,  up  town  a  bit,  took  a  full 
twenty  minutes  hunting  over  cheap  bits  of 
steak,  stale  bread,  and  a  roast  that  "  ought 
to  go  mighty  low,  seeing  it  was  toler'ble  tough 
and  some  gristly."  Riley  was  pretty  well 
tired  out  when  the  last  one  left  the  store. 
He  glanced  at  the  clock :  eleven-ten ;  he  had 
permission  to  close  at  eleven,  and  it  was  ten 
minutes  past. 

He  went  out  and  put  up  the  shutters,  came 
back,  and  began  putting  away  the  books. 

The  big  ledger  had  scarcely  been  touched ; 
he  had  been  too  busy  to  post  that  night. 


at  tfec  ®0m*t  (Swettj.    203 

"  Mr.  Riley  ?  Mr.  Riley  ?  Just  a  minute 
before  you  close  up,  Mr.  Riley." 

He  went  back  to  the  counter,  impatiently ; 
he  was  very  tired.  A  woman  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms  stood  there  waiting. 

"  I  am  late,"  she  said,  "  a'most  too  late. 
I  want  a  bite  for  to-morrow.  Give  me  what 
will  go  farthest  for  that" 

She  laid  a  silver  quarter  upon  the  counter. 

"  How  many  of  you  ?  "  said  Riley.  "  It 
might  make  a  lunch  for  one " 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  A  drunkard  counts  for  one  when  it  comes 
to  eatin',  anyhows,"  she  said,  and  laughed — 
a  hard,  bitter  laugh.  "He  counts  for  some- 
thin'  when  he's  drunk,"  she  went  on,  the 
poor  tongue  made  free  by  misery  that  would 
repent  itself  on  the  morrow.  "  May  be  man, 
brute  likely.  I've  got  the  proofs  o'  it." 

She  set  the  child  upon  the  counter  and 
pushed  back  her  sleeve,  glanced  a  moment  at 
a  long,  black  bruise  that  reached  from  wrist 


204    {5;im0tma0  <&ve  at  the  (ttomtK  (Srowttj. 

to  elbow,  then  quickly  lowered  the  sleeve 
.again. 

"  Give  me  somethin'  to  eat,  Mr.  Riley,  for 
the  sake  o'  your  own  wife,  sir, — an'  the 
Christmas." 

His  own  wife !  Why,  she  was  safe  ;  safe 
forever  from  misery  like  that.  He  almost 
shrieked  it  to  the  big  blue  blotter.  And  then 
he  looked  to  see  what  he  had  written.  He 
almost  trembled,  lest  in  his  agony  he  had 
entered  upon  the  master's  well-ordered  book 
his  thought :  "  Safe  !  Elizabeth  Riley  under 
the  snow — Christmas"  he  had  written  it 
somewhere,  upon  his  heart,  perhaps,  but 
surely  somewhere.  The  entry  in  the  boss's 
book  was  all  right ;  it  read  a  trifle  extrava- 
gantly, however: — 

To  S.  Riley Dr. 

1  shoulder,  10  Ibs.  @  10  cents      .        .      $  1  00 

2  Ibs.  coffee  @  30  cents 60 

2  Ibs.  sugar  @  12£  cents 25 

3  doz.   eggs  @   15   cents 45 


at  the  <K0met  tom.    205 


"  For  the  sake  of  the  dead  wife,"  he  told 
the  blue  blotter,  —  "  the  dead  wife  and  the 
Christinas  time."  Then  he  thrust  the  book 
into  the  safe,  turned  the  combination,  looked 
into  the  stove,  lowered  the  gas,  and  went 
home. 

Home  to  the  little  attic  and  the  crippled 
nestling.  She  was  asleep,  but  a  tiny  red 
stocking,  worn  at  the  heel,  though  thor- 
oughly clean,  hung  beside  the  chimney. 

He  tiptoed  to  .the  bed,  and  looked  down 
at  the  little  sleeper.  There  was  a  smile  upon 
the  baby  lips,  as  if  in  dreams  the  little  feet 
were  made  straight,  and  were  skipping 
through  sunny  meadows,  while  their  owner's 
hand  was  clasped  fast  in  the  hand  of  the  hero 
of  all  childish  adoration,  —  the  mythical,  magi- 
cal Santa  Glaus. 

The  little  hands  were  indeed  clasped 
tightly  upon  a  bit  of  cardboard  that  peeped 
from  beneath  the  delicate  fingers,  upon  the 
breast  of  the  innocent  sleeper.  Riley  drew 


206    (&M$tm%#  (&n  at  tto 


it  gently  away.  It  was  a  Christmas  card  the 
neighbor-woman  had  picked  up  in  some  home 
of  the  rich  where  she  had  gone  that  day  to 
carry  home  some  sewing.  It  bore  a  face  of 
Christ,  and  a  multitude,  eager,  questioning; 
and  underneath  a  text  :  — 

"  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these,  my  brethren,  ye  did  it  unto  me." 

He  sighed,  thinking  of  the  hungry  horde, 
the  fainting  multitude  at  the  grocery  that 
Christmas  eve. 

His  heart  had  ached  for  them;  he  un- 
derstood so  well  what  it  was  to  be  wretched, 
lonely,  hungry.  Not  one  of  those  he  had 
helped  had  thanked  him,  in  words  ;  not  one 
had  wished  him  a  Merry  Christmas.  Yet, 
for  what  he  had  done,  because  of  it,  the 
little  red  stocking  by  the  chimney-place 
would  be  half  empty.  He  hadn't  missed 
their  thanks,  poor  starvelings,  and  to  say 
"  Merry  Christmas,"  would  have  been  to 


at  ite  (&0mtv  titaovevg.    207 

mock.  Yet  he  fancied  a  smile  touched  for 
an  instant  the  lips  of  the  pale  Nazarene, 
those  lips  said  to  have  never  smiled,  as  he 
slipped  the  card  to  its  place  under  the  wee 
hands  folded  upon  the  child's  heart. 

And  after  a  little  while  he  was  lying  by 
her  side,  too  tired  to  sleep,  thinking  of  the 
unbalanced  ledger  and  the  books  that  must 
be  posted  before  the  year  should  end. 

At  last  he  slept.  But  the  big  ledger  re- 
fused to  leave  him ;  even  in  dreams  it  fol- 
lowed to  annoy,  and  drag  him  back  to 
the  little  suburban  grocery.  And  when  he 
unlocked  the  safe  and  took  it  out,  lo !  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  host  of  beggars  :  boys  with- 
out money  wanting  firecrackers  ;  women 
with  starving  babies  in  their  arms;  little 
girls  crying  for  bread ;  old  men,  young 
men,  white,  black, — all  the  beggars  of  the 
big  round  world.  They  seized  the  boss's  big 
book  and  began  to  scribble  in  it,  until  a 
little  girl  with  a  crutch  began  to  beat  them 


208    <Etm0tma£  (&vt  at  ttoe 


off.  And  when  they  were  gone  he  could 
still  hear  the  noise  of  them  —  a  mighty  rustle 
of  wings  ;  and  he  saw  that  they  had  gathered 
ah1  about  him,  in  the  air  ;  and  they  no  longer 
begged,  —  they  laughed.  And  there  was  one 
who  wore  a  mask  ;  and  when  it  was  removed 
he  saw  the  face  of  Christ. 

Then  he  took  back  his  old  ledger,  and  lo  ! 
upon  the  credit  side  where  the  balance  was 
not  made,  a  text  had  been  entered.  It  filled 
the  page  down  to  the  bottom  line  :  — 

"  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least  of  these, 
ye  did  it  unto  me." 

And  full  across  the  page,  as  plain  as  if  it 
had  been  in  blood,  ran  the  long  red  lines 
that  showed  the  sheet  was  balanced. 

THE  END. 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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A     000  090  054     8 


